


Linger

by Missgoldy



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Anger, Angst, Best Friends, Confusion, Death, Disappointment, Dominance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Control, Making Out, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stress Relief, Touching, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/pseuds/Missgoldy
Summary: ‘Just like that, he knows there's nowhere left for them to go after this. The boundaries and the games and the rhetorical questions are officially over, and he wants her body and her mind and her scent lingering in his life long after he's used her.’A series of snapshots detailing Wheeler’s final five years with the Planeteers. Rating will change in future chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OzQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/gifts), [Minkel23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkel23/gifts).



> So, I wrote this story for Minkel and OzQueen, because they are both prolific writers and I wanted to gift something to them on AO3.
> 
> It was kind of a "thank-you for writing for us" gift for Minkel and a "for the love of god, keep writing for us" gift for Ozqueen, in response to one of her challenge letters on A03.
> 
> It was meant to be a one-shot, but my work tends to take on a life of its own. I foresee this being around five chapters (EDIT – make that ten chapters) with each chapter separating a time-jump. Most of it is already written. This will be an in-depth character study into Wheeler's final five years with the Planeteers. It will change rating later on. 
> 
> I said after Shadows that I was done, but I'm hoping you won't mind this new little addition.

The sand is relentless, whipping around him with no sight of abating. Gritty and coarse, it's in his goddamn ears and eyes, stinging his body with lethal efficiency. It feels like a thousand needles competing for real estate over the expanse of his reddened, wind-swept skin.

It's been four straight days of this shit. Four exhausting, tedious days of toiling away in the desert and Wheeler now finds himself at the point of questioning his own sanity. Wondering why the fuck he signed on for this.

The pay and conditions certainly aren't anything to write home about.

It's getting worse.

The further they dig into the persistent environmental issues plaguing the planet, the deeper the hole they find themselves in. The shovel is blunt now, but they keep striking away at the damaged earth, driven by their fierce desire to salvage what is left.

They have the drive and the ambition, but their adversaries have unlimited financial means and friends in high places.

It's an uphill battle — and Wheeler's battered sneakers are starting to lose traction.

Other options have come his way — four lucrative job offers in the past month alone. Corporations eager to capitalise on his knowledge and popularity. The offers have been enough to pique his interest, but not enough to commit himself to making that final disconnection from the life he now finds himself in.

Wheeler adjusts the scarf wrapped loosely around his mouth, blinking against the gale-force winds. There's a ferocity to the current conditions, almost a mournful acknowledgement of the small farming community currently buried beneath tonnes of sand.

One hundred years of global warming is to blame. The sprawling Sahara Desert has gradually encroached upon the neighbouring farmland. With such a small amount of arable land available, it's a cruel _fuck you_ to the locals already struggling to co-exist within the arid conditions. The withered crops are receding faster than Looten Plunder's hairline.

Three solid weeks of sandstorms were the icing on the cake. The fatalities have been high.

Kwame's hunched figure ambles past. He's a man of the desert, at home amongst the weathered dunes and even he seems to be reaching the limit of his monumental patience.

Kwame gestures toward him, voicing something unintelligible.

Wheeler slows and squints at him quizzically. "Huh?"

"What?" Kwame bellows back, trying to be heard above the persistent drone.

"What did you say?" Wheeler lowers the makeshift mask for a moment and gets a mouthful of sand for the trouble. "Ah, shit!" he mutters, doubling over and spitting out the offending granules. "Goddamn stupid —"

"…pulled…last of… free," Kwame manages, along with more overly theatrical hand gestures designed to nudge along his comprehension, but Wheeler understands perfectly.

Wheeler gives the thumbs up sign as Kwame straightens, staring at the hive of activity just visible through the persistent orange haze. He looks dejected and frustrated, and Wheeler understands why.

Kwame seems older now, but then they all do. The innocence and optimism that accompanied the first few years has all but vanished, replaced by a wary understanding of the way things work. Their eyes are very much open to the ongoing greed and corruption.

Money talks. The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. The resources are drained without the chance to replenish their supply. Sustainability has become a buzz word — uttered to appease local councils and governments but never actually followed through upon.

No longer dealing with individuals, they now find themselves coming up against faceless corporations and conglomerates.

Wheeler sighs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His eyes follow Ma-Ti and Linka's distant figures, just visible through the haze. Their rings are the only ones getting a workout on this mission. The rest of their powers (including his own) are of no use right now.

There's a brief reprieve in the conditions and Wheeler takes advantage, pulling his mouth covering down again. "We're gettin' too old for this shit," he offers blandly.

"Indeed we are, my friend." Kwame smiles in response, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. He places a consolatory hand on Wheeler's back as they survey the scene before them. It's a gesture borne out of loyalty, friendship and deep, implicit trust. A brotherly bond despite their physical and genetic differences.

"Is it always like this?"

"No," Kwame replies. "I have never seen it this bad before."

"Gonna be diggin' sand out of my ass crack for the next week," Wheeler grumbles, shielding his face against another hot blast of sand steadily rising.

"Better than the alternative," Kwame says quietly, nodding towards the wrapped bodies lined up in neat rows.

"We headin' off?"

"There is nothing more to be done," he replies, beckoning toward Gi nearby in an effort to gain her attention. "We are needed in Guatemala."

They make their way back towards their vehicle, collecting Linka and Ma-Ti along the way. The domed windows of the geo-cruiser shimmer in the harsh sunlight; the bright yellow fuselage blending in somewhat with the sand.

There's a damaged solar panel jutting out at an awkward angle. It happens from time to time; five years of rough treatment and collisions causing damage to their equipment. Wheeler hoists himself up onto the wing and does his best to shove the panel back into place again, lest the entire system break away mid-flight.

He passes his hand over the surface, feeling oddly sentimental. Scratches and indentations mark the metal. They're a badge of honour, a testament to the many missions they've flown, the dodgy landings attempted — and the countless attempts made by eco-villains to knock them out of the sky.

But they're still here, still making a difference. Still wading through the political red tape and the never-ending slush pile of environmental issues.

Some days, the slush is like quick sand.

The more they struggle, the deeper they sink.

* * *

There's mold growing in the corner of his parent's apartment.

If he hadn't been so intent on looking for his shoes, Wheeler would have missed the discovery entirely. Thick, spongy spores cling to the damp surface, just as they had during his childhood. Always worse during spring and summer, he's no longer sure if the mold is to blame for his mother's persistent throaty hack or the cigarettes she smokes like a chimney.

The plumbing in this place has always been an occupational hazard, hidden behind panels of soggy dry-wall. The pipes are leaky. Condensation forms, tracking in rivulets down the walls and nature always seems to follow its due course.

Wheeler takes no pleasure in being here.

He never has.

This house isn't a home, nor will it ever be; built on a foundation of stale beer, violence and raised voices. He visits occasionally, not out of loyalty or love, but out of an ingrained sense of familial duty.

He visits to check that his parents are eating properly. He drops by to make sure his mother's face isn't bruised and blackened. He spends time here in the hope that debt collectors aren't knocking down the front door with a battering ram.

He checks on their welfare to ensure that they're still alive, whilst they drink and smoke their way to an early death.

The irony doesn't escape him.

The ceiling fan whirrs above and the mold bristles idly, the threads moving about in the breeze. Wheeler wrinkles his nose in distaste, half expecting the growth to start mutating into something even more hideous and funky.

He gathers up supplies and sets about cleaning it up, wiping the surface down with an equal measure of hot water and white vinegar, ensuring his mother's already battered lungs are offered the brief chance of a reprieve.

"Gross," he mutters, glancing up as his mother enters the room. She drops into a cheap plastic dining chair, stubbing out her blunt cigarette into an ashtray before reaching for another. The transition between smokes is almost graceful; a flawless and well-practiced study into the prevalence of undiagnosed lung cancer.

"Pipes are still a problem," his mother complains, her voice dry and raspy. "Made a report last year but they never got around to –"

"Take 'em to the tribunal, Ma," he says, but she waves him off, taking a long drag and expelling it slowly through her thin lips.

"Won't do nothin'."

"For god's sake," he says, exasperated. Dumping the sponge and cleaning products into the sink, he washes his hands quickly before pulling up a chair opposite her, staring her down. "It's been thirty years of this shit –"

"There's no point."

"This place is a dive, it always has been —"

"I like it here." She waves her hand dismissively. "Besides, I'm not footin' the bill."

"No, the state of New York is," he mutters under his breath, aware of his parent's lifelong penchant for draining every available penny in housing, food stamps and other welfare entitlements. As far as his parents are concerned, self-respect and dignity are alien concepts.

He sits slumped in his chair, his eyes taking in the fetid apartment and the complete miss-match of outdated furniture.

The carpet is stained and worn through in places. The oven hasn't worked in ten years. Half of the windows are permanently jammed shut and there's a smell emanating from the ceiling of the only bathroom. Perhaps something dead and rotting, festering away above their heads. The rats here in this tenement can grow to the size of small dogs, after all.

This place is small, claustrophobic and unwelcoming — but then, it's always been like this.

His mother is forty-two but looks closer to sixty, her face prematurely lined and haggard. Her eyes are sunken and bloodshot, and her long, grey hair lies lankly over her shoulders. She's missing several teeth now, and Wheeler recalls with vivid clarity a discussion recently had, and Gi's assertion that poor dental hygiene is often linked with low socio-economic status.

His parents are a living testament to that.

"Wanna drink?"

"What have ya got?"

She shrugs, motioning towards the refrigerator. "There's beer in the —"

He shakes his head, because here, in this place, in this house, he will never drink alcohol. Ever.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Seein' anyone?"

Wheeler smirks, reaching for a half-stale cookie lying on a chipped dinner plate. He munches on it thoughtfully. "Depends on your interpretation of seein', ma."

She likes that, tossing her head back and laughing hard, but her amusement turns into a frenzied hacking sound, and she coughs and sputters uncontrollably, seeming to choke. Wheeler jumps to his feet, alarmed as his mother's face soon turns a dull shade of purple. He thumps her on the back several times as she brings up ropes of red-tinged mucus, followed by dark chunks of suspicious matter.

_Fuck._

"Jesus, ma," he voices, his mouth dry and his heart still racing. "You need to see a doctor."

"Just an infection," she says, wiping the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief. "Not gonna pay money for –"

She trails off, reaching again for her cigarette and taking a long drag, and a flare of bitterness hits him, hot and sharp. There's no concern for her own mortality. There's no pride, no initiative, no drive to do better or to be better. No will to improve upon her pathetic circumstances, just a resigned acceptance of her fate.

But why should anything change?

He sighs, his eyes settling on the blood-tinged handkerchief still clutched in her hand, wishing that he was enough — enough for her to want to get better. Enough to encourage her to be proactive about her health, but knowing that the prospect of burying her within the next five years was looking unavoidable.

"Will you see a doctor if I pay?"

"Don't waste your money," she says dismissively. "I'm takin' care of it myself."

Judging by the thick clots dislodging from her lungs, Wheeler begs to differ, but he keeps his mouth shut. Arguing gets you nowhere in this household.

You can't help someone who won't help themselves.

"We're short this month, though," she says softly, unable to look him in the eye. "Runnin' out of supplies."

"What do you need?"

She shrugs. "Staples. Bread and milk. Meat."

"I'll order somethin' in," he says pointedly, ignoring the flicker of annoyance that crosses her face, but Wheeler knows all too well that handing over cash will be a big mistake.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she leans back and looks him over keenly. There's pride there, buried beneath a well-practiced veil of ambivalence.

"You look good," she says, and he knows that this random comment is the closest his mother will ever come to offering positive reinforcement. "Still waitin' for you to bring a nice girl home."

"You'll be waitin' a while, ma," he says with a hint of a smile, yet his mind draws forth the object of his affections – and the stark realisation that even if she were his, he would NEVER in a million years bring her here.

For every pick-up line or comment, Linka's answer is always the same.

_Ask me again next year, Yankee._

His mother takes another drag, before stubbing the cigarette out. "Gotta sow your wild oats, huh?"

"Somethin' like that."

"Marriage is for chumps," she says, gesturing towards her thin cardigan lying draped over the back of his chair. He hands it to her wordlessly and she pulls it on over her wasted arms. "Stay single. Enjoy your life."

He takes that sage advice with a grain of salt.

Wheeler flattens his hands on the table decisively. "Right. I'm gonna —"

"You stayin' the night?" she interrupts, her body language seemingly uninterested, but her eyes are bright and hopeful. She nods towards his old bedroom. "I can make up your room —"

"I'm catchin' up with friends tonight," he says, wincing at the disappointed expression on her face. "Look, I'd better go."

"Your pa will be home any minute," she says, almost an unconscious plea to keep him around a little longer. "He'll wanna see ya."

Wheeler sincerely doubts that.

"I'm already late," he offers by way of apology. "Good to see ya though, ma."

She nods, and he stands, grabbing his jacket and heading for the front door. "I'll order a grocery delivery for you guys," he says, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he exits the apartment.

He descends rapidly, eyeing his father's obese figure ambling towards him, having finished his daily session at the bar around the corner.

Wheeler raises his hand in greeting, but his father simply nods, as if seeing his only son every six months isn't much to be excited about. Wheeler has to flatten himself against the wall as he passes.

His dad's gait is unsteady, the stairwell pungent with the aroma of rum, his apparent new drink of choice. His dad's protruding stomach reaches the front door before the rest of him and he lurches inside, bellowing out an expletive before slamming the door behind him.

Out on the street, he can breathe again. It's like the weight has been lifted, finally free of the oppressive atmosphere.

His parents have given him little and taught him nothing. They'll leave a legacy of mounting debt and bad memories, nothing more or less. They bring sorrow rather than joy, guilt and derision rather than kindness.

He will leave this place, yet the cigarette smoke will linger long after his visit, just as it has every other time.

He'll shower tonight, put on fresh clothes and reminisce with old friends he pretends he still likes, but he won't shake the memory of tobacco and alcohol that appears to have latched itself to his skin and his soul.

Lost in thought, he turns and wanders down the sidewalk, intent on enjoying the remainder of his leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for scenes of animal abuse.

She hasn't returned.

They've reconvened at the agreed meeting point and they're one person down. There's an undercurrent of alarm amongst them, even more so when Ma-Ti worriedly mentions he can sense no trace of her.

They break off in pairs, returning to the scene of the crime and slinking back into the seemingly innocuous factory.

Dead animals are scattered throughout the place. Most in cages, some free of their restraints if only for a few hopeful moments, making that frenzied, single-minded dash for freedom before being caught and slaughtered.

Survival is an inbuilt mechanism, Wheeler has discovered, evident in all living creatures — a fight or flight response in both humans and animals.

These dogs never stood a chance.

Many were beloved family pets, stolen from backyards, their owners thankfully oblivious to the horrors that awaited them. Tethered with wire wrapped around their necks, slowly strangling them while being beaten to death with iron bars.

Makes the meat more tender.

Sometimes Wheeler wonders who the real animals are. The Yulin dog festival certainly has a lot to answer for. They've spent many years fighting the appalling abuse, perpetuated by a cycle of cultural and traditional excuses.

Teams of investigators have arrived, taking photos of the carnage. Clean-up crews are on their way. Some of the employees sit handcuffed in the main office and are being questioned by police, however the main ring leaders have dispersed like the cowards they are.

No surprises there.

Wheeler steps warily around several carcasses. There's a large dog lying dead by the doorway, her engorged nipples evident and Wheeler blanches at the fate that may have awaited her pups. Ma-Ti is pale and shaky as they pass through, checking every corner and beneath surfaces.

"I cannot go any further," he blurts out suddenly, grabbing Wheeler's arm and slumping against the wall, covering his ears. "It's too fresh, I can still hear them —"

He leaves Ma-Ti behind, ducking into rooms and scanning for evidence of their missing colleague. He's wary and on edge, feeling pissed off and generally wanting to set fire to something, wanting to quench the rage building steadily inside him.

It doesn't take long to find her, slumped unconscious against the far wall along with three shady-looking men for company. One carries a briefcase that bulges at the seams. Another is talking heatedly into a cell phone and the third is still clutching the iron bar she was so obviously struck with.

They glance around furtively. The man with the briefcase is soaked through, and water pools beneath their feet. In an instant, he knows what has gone down.

Gi caught them trying to escape.

Wheeler clenches his fist. The briefcase spontaneously combusts and they all bellow in fright, jumping away. The cell phone is the next to burst into flame and they scatter in different directions, running for their lives.

Wheeler blocks their exit, knocking the first guy out with a vicious right hook as the man pelts through the doorway in a blind panic. The second avoids a wall of flame and trips, consequently knocking himself out.

The third drops the iron bar and raises his hands in the air in defeat as the two officers arrive, their guns drawn.

The abandoned briefcase still smoulders as Wheeler drops to his knees beside Gi. She's stirring now, her pupils dilated and unfocused, the tell-tale signs of a moderate concussion.

"You all right, Mermaid?"

She blinks up at him in confusion, pressing her hands to her bloody forehead.

"Gotta go," he says urgently, helping her into a sitting position. "It's too —"

Gunfire erupts, and chaos descends. A gunfight breaks out and they're caught in the crossfire. A bullet whizzes by and Wheeler swears, grabbing Gi roughly and hauling her to her feet.

It's time to go.

She's a heavy weight, sagging and unsteady against him, unable to walk. He tosses her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and sprints away as fast as his legs will carry him, collecting Ma-Ti along the way.

The group converges and Wheeler offloads Gi into Kwame's waiting arms, needing his ring to disarm several more pissed-off thugs blocking the exit. Linka sends a few more sprawling into the air. He ushers his friends out to safety first, ducking behind a cage and intent on following them when a high-pitched cry diverts his attention.

There's slight movement inside the cage and he's distracted for a moment, spotting something wriggling beneath the body of a downed Labrador.

A black nose pops out and sniffs the air, before burrowing back, whimpering quietly. Wheeler hesitates, eyeing his surroundings and considering his options, all too aware of the potential dressing down he'll receive from Linka about taking on unvaccinated strays.

_Fuck it._

He pushes his hand carefully beneath the mass of fur, feeling around until he finds a small, trembling body. He grabs hold and coaxes the little guy out.

It's not a Labrador, perhaps a border collie or similar breed. It's hard to tell when they're so small. He is actually a she, with floppy, oversized ears and big brown eyes. She tries to scamper away, but Wheeler holds her firm, tucking her against his chest and wrapping the bottom of his sweatshirt around her. Jumping to his feet, Wheeler flees the scene, intent on re-joining the others with the new addition.

* * *

"I do not wish to be a negative dilly, but I just feel that policies should be put in place for this very reason," Linka says. "Governments and their representatives are elected to represent the people, not themselves and their own interests."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Wheeler laments, taking the wet dinner plate she hands him. "At the end of the day, they're all out to push their own agenda."

"That is my point, Yankee."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I figured you had one."

She laughs. "I always have a point."

"You have many, Linka."

Linka chuckles, resuming the washing up. She laughs quickly and easily now. The disagreements and fights of the past are gone. They have a lovely camaraderie. She's the yin to his yang. The apple to his pie. They enjoy each other's company immensely. He lives for these quiet, stolen moments of normality. The sneaky touches and lingering glances when they assume the other isn't looking.

"It is frustrating," she says quietly, up to her elbows in murky dishwater. Washing the dinner dishes with renewed gusto, she glances down and smiles as a black shape moves past them. "Do not step back, Wheeler."

"Huh?" Wheeler feels something rub along the back of his calves. He glances down too, watching Shadow push her way between his legs. She circles him for a moment before flopping heavily to the floor, trapping his feet beneath her warm weight. "Oh."

Wheeler nudges her gently, trying to coax her away, but Shadow isn't having a bar of it.

"I think someone is a little bespeckled with you."

"Besotted," he says absently, giving her a good rub between the ears.

Shadow's name is very fitting. They're attached at the hip. She follows Wheeler everywhere. Swimming, surfing or generally hanging out in front of the television. She's a fifty-pound wannabe lap-dog, content to plant herself as close as humanely possible to her new master.

"C'mon, babe," he mutters. "Move your ass."

Linka raises an eyebrow as Shadow reluctantly dislodges herself from Wheeler's feet, padding into the common room with a sullen stare directed back at them.

"You are calling the dog _babe_ , now?"

"Yeah. Why? You jealous?"

"No," she laughs, her cheeks coloring. Linka turns back to the washing up, concentrating on the job at hand. "No, not at all."

He watches her for a while, content to be in her company while he waits for the next dish to be passed over. He takes in her lovely profile as she chats away, oblivious as always to his admiring gaze.

She's dressed in sweat pants and an old t-shirt, her messy hair bound in a loose pony-tail. Some hair has fallen free, framing her face in loose tendrils, but she still looks as pretty as the first day he met her.

Linka smells of strawberries tonight. Each day brings a new, delicious lucky dip of potential flavors. He wakes, ready to immerse himself in whatever scent she fastidiously applied to her skin and hair that morning.

It's a promise of what he could have but has yet to achieve.

He's a patient man, though.

Linka sighs, gesturing in the air with a glove-draped hand. "Religion should not come into politics. Neither should business. There are too many people buying their way into government and financially benefiting from it in the process."

"Yep," he says, taking another offered plate and drying it.

"It is just common sense."

"We had a senator in Alabama accept bribes in exchange for defence contracts last year," Wheeler offers, stacking the plates in the cupboard before reaching for another. "Two and a half million bucks he made. Got a yacht out of it too, lucky bastard."

" _Corrupt_ bastard," Linka mutters, and he grins. It's rare to hear anything unsavoury come out of Linka's mouth, and he decides he likes it. She hands him a weird looking cheese grater to dry. "Then you have forty million dollars spent on campaign advertising from business owners who are refusing to pay their workers entitlements, yet feel they could run the country fairly?"

"Mad world," he says, staring at the grater still in his hand. "Where the heck does this go?"

"Hmm?"

"This violent lookin' thing?"

Linka gives him a look of mock indignation. "Really?"

"Hey, I just eat the food. Preparin's not really my thing."

"Neither is cleaning, Wheeler." She tuts good naturedly, pointing to a corner cupboard behind his head. "Six years and you still do not know your way around the kitchen?"

"Know my way around the bedroom," he says smugly, giving her a salacious wink. "If that counts for anything?"

"No, it does not," she laughs, but she's blushing hard again and keeping her eyes trained on the kitchen sink. " _Idiota_."

"Just sayin," he says, shoving the implement in somewhat and dislodging several others in the process. "The invitation's always there, sweetheart."

"Ask me again next year, Yankee." She pats his shoulder in what he assumes to be a consoling manner. "Let us get the household chores under your control first."

"I'll hold you to that."

He flicks up some detergent bubbles, smooshing them on the end of her nose, and Linka flicks water back at him. Without missing a beat, he whips her ass with the end of the dish towel in one stinging, fluid motion that has her jumping away with a yelp, clutching her bottom.

She retaliates without thinking, scooping up a pot full of lukewarm, dirty water. Lunging forward, she tips the contents over his head.

He stands frozen for a moment, his mouth hanging open in shock as filthy water and food scraps stream down his face and clothes, pooling in a puddle around his feet.

"Really?" he sputters, wiping his face. Peeling off his soaked t-shirt, Wheeler wrings out the excess water into the sink while staring her down. "You wanna play hardball, do ya?"

Linka's mischievous smile fades and she backs away, uncertain now, her eyes darting left and right, looking for an escape route. He knows that she's come to a realisation. A fatal error of judgement has been made, all too aware that Wheeler never backs down from a challenge.

Payback's a bitch, after all. He observes her through narrowed eyes.

"Wait —" she threatens, palms outstretched in an effort to appease him. "Wheeler, don't you dare —"

"You're gonna regret that."

"You started it, Yankee!"

"Plannin' on ending it too. Big mistake, honey."

"Honey?" she goads, unable to help herself. She's eyeing him warily, hovering in the doorway, ready to flee if needed. "What happened to _babe_? You really do have that name reserved for the dog?"

"I sure as hell do now," he says quietly, tossing his shirt aside and lunging towards her.

She's gone like a rocket, out the door and barrelling through the common room, shrieking wildly. He catches her up in his arms close to where Kwame is sitting, manhandling her back through the common room, her feet dragging and scuffing against the tiles.

"NO!" she shrieks between fits of laughter as she's dragged away. "Wheeler —"

"Be right back," he calls cheerily to their bemused housemates playing cards around the table. Hoisting Linka's struggling figure over his shoulder, he marches her down the beach, the moonlight guiding his way, intent on giving her a good dunking in the waves.

And Shadow follows behind at a respectful distance, intent on keeping Wheeler close.

* * *

"Lost cause?"

"He'll be out in a week," Wheeler laments, glancing around the packed courthouse filled to the brim with reporters and EPA staff. "Whole system is a joke."

More witnesses are present than available seats. There's some pushing and shoving going on as reporters compete for the best position. Gi recoils as an errant camera lens nudges the side of her face. She shifts her body closer to Wheeler's and clutches her takeaway coffee in her lap, staring at the empty defence table. They've given evidence and it's now time for the judge to hand down the sentence.

They're not expecting much, just a slap on the wrist as per usual. Gi's right — it's a lost cause. Being here is an exercise in redundancy. Wheeler chooses to attend sentencing hearings in order to stare men like Looten Plunder down, to let them know that they're still being watched.

It's an empty formality, but it grants Wheeler some form of closure when faced with a disappointing outcome.

The side doors open and Plunder strides out into the chamber, accompanied by his lawyers. The formidable team walk purposefully to their seats, laughing and generally oozing in confidence. Wheeler frowns, taking in Plunder's new hair style with interest.

"Thought he was goin' bald," Wheeler whispers. "Think he's had work done?"

"What do you mean?"

"Hair plugs?"

"It's a toupee," Gi says nodding towards the offending hair piece. "Why can't men just grow old gracefully?"

"Reckon he's been dippin' into the Botox, too," he observes, staring hard at Plunder's unnaturally smooth forehead. "Face is pulled tighter than Blight's ass in pink spandex."

Gi bursts out laughing, and he elbows her good naturedly as the judge takes his seat.

It takes the foreman less than thirty seconds to deliver the verdict.

Guilty on all counts, but Plunder is sentenced to time already served, and the room erupts in chaos.

The bastard is free to go.

"Fuckin' hell," Wheeler growls, throwing his head back in frustration. Building this case has been a pain-staking process, unravelled within a mere thirty seconds by a group of people who were not allowed access to the evidence photos.

Plunder's expensive lawyers had seen to that.

The handshakes and slaps on the back are too much. Wheeler stands abruptly and stalks out, flowed closely by Gi. They slip through the front doors amongst a flurry of flash bulbs and generalised outrage from the people still hollering inside.

"Unbelievable," Wheeler grumbles. He kicks an aluminium can, sending it skittering down the stairs. "Probably paid off the jury."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Gi replies patiently, taking a seat on a garden ledge at the base of the stairs, and after a moment Wheeler joins her. She rubs his back in a soothing manner. "You win some, you lose some."

"We lose most of 'em, Gi."

She shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee. "Then we pick ourselves up and start again."

He nods glumly, glancing down at his hands. Something else is on his mind.

"Got another offer last week."

Gi's coffee cup pauses in mid- air. She stares at him. "From who?"

"Same company as before," he says. "Tossed another fifty grand at me."

Gi is quiet for a moment. "You gonna take it?"

"Dunno," he says. "I'm thinkin' about it."

"Wow." Gi appears troubled. "That's pretty generous… can you see yourself sitting in an office five days a week?"

"Can you?" He scoffs, raising his eyebrows. "Media and marketing? You need a degree for that. No one in my family made it past the tenth grade, myself included. I have no qualifications —"

"But you have the experience, Wheeler," Gi explains patiently. "You also have the personality and the proven track record. You handle all our media. You're our spokesman and you do it better than any of us. You've got the gift of the gab. They're after you for a good reason."

"Do you think they're aware of my innate ability to piss people off?"

"I doubt it," Gi laughs. "Do they know about your short temper? Your smart-ass comments or your inability to tie your shoes properly? Will you mention that in your response?"

"I'm a package deal. All or nothin'."

"What about your fondness for leggy Russian blondes?"

"I'll get 'em to put it in the contract," he muses, air-writing on an invisible piece of paper. "Must have leggy Russian blonde secretary."

"I dare you to ask Linka that," she laughs, thumping her chest and adopting a deep Bronx accent. "Hey babe, I'm leavin' the Planeteers. Fancy a job bringin' my coffee and openin' my mail on a daily basis?"

"Don't think she'll go for that."

"Tell her you'll offer fringe benefits." Gi grins, slapping his back again. "Oh wait, you've already tried that!"

"Screw you, princess," he laughs. "That was low, even for —"

A shadow passes over them.

"Always a pleasure to see you two."

Plunder's deep voice pulls him from the revelry. Plunder grins, dusting off his lapels as he descends the stairs, and Wheeler's attention is again drawn to the shiny skin stretched thin across solid bone. Now that he's closer, Wheeler realises he's had a lot more work done than initially thought. Lip fillers, perhaps an eye lift.

It's like staring at the sun — he can't look away.

"Consoling yourselves? They're a bar across the street if you're wanting to drown your sorrows."

"Nah man, we're actually just here for the sunshine, but your big-ass head is blockin' it."

Plunder shrugs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigar. Wedging it between his lips, he pats his jacket down while eyeing Wheeler warily.

Wheeler smirks. "Need a light?"

"No," he says a little too quickly as he retrieves what he's looking for. "Don't want my face melted off."

"Would probably be an improvement." Wheeler shrugs idly, gesturing around them. "Too many witnesses, anyway."

"Don't know why you brats even bother," Plunder drawls, adjusting a leather satchel over his shoulder and smiling down at them condescendingly, his cigar pinched between his fingers and billowing narrow plumes of smoke. "Might as well run home whimpering to your precious Gaia like the rabid dogs you are—"

"Yeah, and we'll be right back here dry humpin' your leg the next time you're arrested, asshole," he snaps back, ignoring Gi's baffled expression.

"Until next time, Planet Punks." Plunder strides off without a second glance, heading towards the private car waiting in the adjacent car park. "Always a pleasure."

"Nice hair piece by the way, douche," Gi calls after him, and Wheeler relishes the way Plunder touches his head self-consciously before stepping into the vehicle.

"Moron."

"Dry humping, Wheeler? Really?"

Wheeler looks just as baffled. He scratches his head sheepishly. "Yeah, it's not my best work —"

"Definitely not."

"— and thanks for the late back-up at the end, champ. Why is it always me doin' the antagonising?"

"It's like art," Gi says admiringly. "Who am I to interrupt perfection?"

"Hmph."

"C'mon," she laughs, dragging Wheeler to his feet. "Shall we eat?"

"You buyin'?"

"Yep."

"All right," he sighs, slinging an arm across her shoulders as they lumber down the sidewalk. "I'm in."


	3. Chapter 3

It's hard to equate Ma-Ti with the little kid who began his journey seven years ago. The decision to draft Ma-Ti into the Planeteers remained a _what the fuck_ moment for himself and Kwame for many years after, wondering what the hell Gaia was thinking — dragging a pre-teen boy away from his home and expecting him to live independently with a bunch of wide-eyed, somewhat irresponsible teenagers.

Turns out Ma-Ti possessed more maturity and world knowledge than the rest of them combined.

The world certainly works in mysterious ways.

"I nearly have the whole collection," Ma-Ti says proudly, his feet swinging idly from the brick garden wall they're currently sitting on. "I found someone from Dallas last month who had Conseco."

"Aren't there like 700 of those little bastards in production?"

"Yes." Ma-Ti nods. "It has taken me six years, but I am nearing the end of my search."

"Who are ya missin'?"

"Mattingly," Ma-Ti says, seeming to think hard. "Ken Griffey Jr has also been hard to find. I am missing around twenty-five, though."

"With all the culture South America has to offer, you choose to start collectin' American baseball cards," Wheeler teases, "with half of the players already retired from those teams, anyway."

"I enjoy it," Ma-Ti sighs. "What can I say."

"Gotta indulge sometimes, Ma-Ti."

Wheeler gets to his feet and yawns, stretching his back with over-exaggerated movements. He glances at Ma-Ti, whose brown eyes are scanning the crowds on this busy London street.

Ma-Ti now towers over him. He's well over six feet in height, tall and lanky, with deep brown eyes and tanned skin. A deep, baritone voice has replaced the pre-pubescent squeak of yesteryear.

Ma-Ti is also very popular with the young girls.

The rest of the group avoided the 'birds and the bees' talk with Ma-Ti for as long as possible, but last year they had no choice but to divulge, owing to some curious and awkward questions he sent in Gi's direction.

Mortified, Gi then unceremoniously dumped him on Wheeler, who was probably the worst fucking choice to have a serious, sit-down conversation about things of a sexual nature.

All in all, Wheeler likes to think he did pretty well under the circumstances.

It's peak hour. The sun is setting and suited men and women with briefcases bustle past, heading home after a long day at work.

Wheeler's current work day is about to start — a midnight raid on one of Skumm's laboratories. There's preparation and planning to do first, however a slight detour was required. It's cold and grey, drizzling with sleet. Wheeler can deal with being cold, but being cold AND wet is always a decidedly miserable affair.

He can see Gi and Kwame heading their way, laden with shopping, and he gives them a wave as Gi bounds towards them.

"What did ya buy?" he asks, peering into her recyclable bags as she shoves them onto his lap.

"New clothes," she trills, rifling through and pulling out some warm, winter clothing. "Needed some descent waterproof jackets and —"

"A new hair dryer, some candles, three CD's and a hideous looking toiletry bag," Kwame finishes for her.

"It's for my mother," she sighs, slipping her arms into the sleeves and shrugging herself into a bulky puffer jacket, the tag still attached and hanging in the breeze. "How often do we find ourselves anywhere with decent shopping?"

"Not gonna model 'em all for us, are ya?" Wheeler says warningly. Heaven knows, she's done it before.

Gi laughs. "I bought new underwear, too. Is that more your style?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Too cold." Gi pokes her tongue out as Linka emerges from the Western Union across the street. She glances both ways and darts across through the traffic, her hair billowing loosely from beneath a dusty pink beanie.

"Finished?" Kwame asks as she joins them.

Linka nods, slightly out of breath as she folds her paperwork into neat squares. "All done."

"Let us find the rendezvous point. We can work out the plan from there."

The others head off and Wheeler hangs back, watching Linka attempting to shove the receipt into her pocket with fumbling, glove-clad hands.

"Transfer go through all right?"

"Yes," she breathes, having completed her monthly pilgrimage to the closest worldwide banking facility available to her at the time. "It should arrive within five days."

"Russian financial crisis," Wheeler muses. "Boozy Boris sure has a lot to answer for."

"It is what it is." Linka shrugs, and they fall into step beside one another. "Nona never worked. My family always worked in the mines… what is the expression? Off the table?"

"Off the books," Wheeler corrects her.

"She is not eligible for the pension. I do not mind sending money her way."

"So long as you held back enough for yourself, babe," he says, despite knowing that seventy to eighty percent of her pay check is wired home on a regular basis. Linka packs her own lunches, buys second-hand clothing and still manages to look like a million bucks compared to her spendthrift best friend, Gi.

There's no fuss. No ego involved or whining about the way things are.

Exceedingly pragmatic in a world of unnecessary material wealth. Driven by need in a world obsessed with want. Seeking to conserve and give, when the girls he's used to back home strive to covet whatever they can get their grubby little hands on.

Linka's pragmatic, rational and graceful nature is just one of the many reasons why he's so fucking fascinated by her.

She's watching him quietly out of the corner of her eye. Biding her time. Without warning, Linka leans in and shoulder-barges him hard, sending him ricocheting into a streetlamp with a resounding _oof_.

It's a random game they've been playing lately, like a twisted round of tag on steroids.

Retaliation is swift. Wheeler grabs her around the waist and hauls her towards a slushy puddle filling the gutter, ignoring her shrieks and cackles. He drops her in feet-first and leaves her there, walking lazily back to their vehicle, a significant spring in his step.

Payback's still a bitch.

* * *

It's TGIF night on the ABC tonight, followed by the weekly Friday Night Freak Out. They're rarely home on a Friday night, but he takes full advantage when he has the good fortune to do so.

Sounds innocent enough; spending the TGIF component sprawled out on the couch watching American sitcoms with Ma-Ti. Introducing him to Family Matters and Step by Step. Ma-Ti enjoys Full House the most though, although Wheeler suspects that the physical appeal of Candace Cameron may have something to do with that.

It's the latter option he bides his time for, just after Ma-Ti heads for bed — where the lights are out, the television flickers in the dark and Shadow snores lightly on the floor beside him, thrilled to see him after yet another long absence.

Wheeler spends the next ten minutes on edge, eyeing the door every now and again as the horror feature is introduced.

The ominous chords of John Carpenter's 'The Thing' begin to play, and he stretches out with a yawn, pulling the blanket over his body and glancing at the door again.

_Glutton for punishment._

He's five minutes in, partially engrossed in the Norwegian helicopters running amok when he feels the light touch of her hand on his leg. Clad in her usual matching singlet and shorts ensemble, she smiles down at him shyly, her hair loose and tumbling prettily over her shoulders.

He shuffles over to allow her room, noting the cute cherry print pattern dotting her night-wear. She sinks down and curls up on her side in front of him, careful as usual to keep some distance between their bodies. He wraps the blanket around them both, his chin nudging the top of her head and his arm settling around her waist.

They settle to watch the movie for a while, and he breathes her in deeply.

Initially, she's tense and rigid beside him. But just like previous Friday nights, Linka will eventually relax against him, and by the middle of the movie, they'll be cuddling together comfortably.

It's date night after all — without the actual dating.

It's a pattern of behaviour they've fallen into lately. Another game they play, and the rules consist of a range of rhetorical questions that are neither spoken nor answered.

How far can they go without pushing the boundaries of friendship? How close can they become without fucking? How much can they say to one another without saying anything at all?

How far will she be willing to take things?

If his hand wanders down to her bare leg, will she move it aside in good humor? Will she wriggle away from his reach, or allow him to keep it there, his fingers dancing over her soft skin while her eyes flutter closed, her breath hitching slowly in her throat.

So many questions.

Tonight, Wheeler tries his luck and is rewarded for his efforts. His palm glides over her hip before advancing further, settling on her thigh and stroking her skin lightly.

She doesn't pull away, and for that he's eternally grateful.

She smells of buttercream frosting. It's taking every inch of his will power not to make a move on her. Caught in a haze of sugar and vanilla, he alternates between wanting to lick her senseless and fucking devour her.

He waits patiently for the day when Linka will allow him to do both.

A man can dream, after all.

"How is your mother?"

He blinks himself free of the buttercream-induced stupor. "Hmm?"

"Your mother?" she says quietly. "How is she?"

"Still refusin' treatment." He closes his eyes. "It's metastasised. Gone to her liver and kidneys. Doctors have given her three months."

"Are you all right?"

"Me?" He gives a wry grin that she cannot see. "Yeah. I'm fightin' fit, babe."

"You know what I mean."

He exhales slowly. Trailing his fingers over her hip again, he strokes her taut stomach through the filmy cotton of her singlet. "It is what it is."

"That does not answer my question, Yankee."

"I don't know how I feel, in all honesty."

She waits patiently for him to elaborate, and he sighs heavily.

"I feel like I should be sad, or mad, or pissed off or somethin'," he says pulling her closer and pressing his face into the soft comfort of her hair. "I feel nothin'."

"Grief works in strange ways."

"They weren't there for me in life, babe. I doubt I'll be grievin' for them in death."

"Mmm," she replies sleepily. Shifting against him, she takes his hand and threads her fingers through his, squeezing gently. "Perhaps when the time comes, you will grieve for what they should have been?"

He nods, pressing his mouth against the crown of her head. "Does not caring make me a bad person?"

"You cannot mourn what you never had," she whispers, and under their current circumstances, being so close yet still so far from her, he can't think of a truer statement. She squeezes his hand again, guiding it up until his arm is folded snugly against her chest.

"I'm fine, babe."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just tired."

"If you need to talk about it —"

"Yeah, I know."

Her fingers flex slowly against his as they watch the movie. "Why is Burt Reynolds doing that?"

"Burt Reynolds?" he says, frowning. Linka has always been hopeless with Hollywood movies. "You mean Kurt Russell?"

"The man with the petri dish."

"Oh, he's testin' their blood."

"For what?"

"For sexually transmitted diseases," Wheeler laughs incredulously, and she kicks him in the shin. "They're lookin' for aliens, ya dope."

"Oh."

"They're checkin' for alien DNA. Lookin' for a reaction to see who's real and who isn't."

"Oh, all right."

"Have you even seen this before?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"It's a cult classic."

"Really?" She doesn't sound convinced. "Russian cinema is certainly less varied."

"How so?"

She strokes the length of his fingers. "Movies were often political in nature when I was growing up. They were heavily censored… up until recently, anyway."

"Really?"

"Mmm hmm," she murmurs. "It is difficult to look forward to movies about Stalin, or countless retellings of Russian military successes."

"Think I'd rather watch paint dry."

She laughs, and he holds her tighter, quiet and warm and content, their hands still entwined and tucked up between the swell of her breasts.

He won't move it. It'll take a fucking nuclear detonation to dislodge his limb willingly.

He does shift his hips several times throughout the evening, though. Biology and fierce attraction lead to one inevitable conclusion — two hours' worth of persistent prodding, and he does his best to spare Linka the ordeal.

Common courtesy, really.

They talk and cuddle, sleepy and relaxed, half-watching the movie but utterly distracted by one another.

They blur the boundaries some more; his fingertips grazing the side of her breast for the briefest of moments. Her hand reaches back blindly, on the premise of adjusting her shorts but grazing the front of his sweatpants in the process.

Linka eventually bids him good night. When the end credits begin to roll, she wanders back to her room, her face flushed and her eyes glazed, in a world of her own. Her scent lingers long after she's gone and he'll toss and turn on the couch for a while, marvelling at this complicated, frustrating and altogether incredible thing they have.

But he knows just as well that the buttercream frosting will fade, replaced once again by the goddamn fucking smoke that permeates the air around him, a constant reminder of where he's from and who he is.

He swings his legs around and sits up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. Glancing down, Shadow's darkened mass lies quietly at his feet.

"Ask her again next year, hey girl?"

She jumps to her feet at the sound of his voice, nudging her wet nose between his knees, eager for his attention. Wheeler rumbles with her for a few minutes until a painful reminder of his evening takes precedence.

"C'mon," he says as he heads wearily for his hut. "Daddy needs a cold shower."


	4. Chapter 4

Gi jumps in fright as another blast rents the air.

"Jesus," she whispers, looking around nervously. "Think they're okay down there?'

"They're fine," Ma-Ti says, doing his best to reassure them. "I'm in contact with both of them. They're making progress."

Wheeler folds his arms as the crowds jostle and push around them. The families of the trapped miners clutch their heads in sorrow, wailing pitifully in their brightly colored saris. The international news crews follow them like vultures, eager to capitalise on their grief and file away their reports before the 3pm deadline.

Human misery leads to increased ratings.

He eyes the reporters and news vans with contempt. It's times like this when he fucking hates his job — but not as much as he loathes the operators of this illegal 'rat hole' mining operation and the complete disregard for safety protocols. The welfare of the local employees wasn't high on the priority list, either.

He assumes the seventy-two workers currently trapped underneath tonnes of rubble are probably feeling the same way — if they survived the initial collapse.

Wheeler shifts restlessly. The miners survival looks doubtful, but Kwame and Linka are currently one mile beneath Wheeler's feet, working with the emergency teams and shifting rock. Gi, Ma-Ti and himself are tasked with coordinating efforts up above.

They've been gone for five hours, toiling away in the dark chasms below as the daylight above fades.

Night-time descends. Floodlights are brought in, directed at the rescue site and the pitch-black shaft that seemingly leads into an infinite nothingness.

Ma-Ti heads off to liaise with the community members. Wheeler takes a long swig from his water bottle, feeling restless and irritable when he's startled by loud shouts. A sudden flurry of activity bursts into action from the site.

A deep, gear-driven metallic sound issues from below, and the reaction is instantaneous. Everybody surges forward, trampling one another in an effort to reach the shaft despite pleas from local authorities to stand back.

A few more moments and something ejects from the pit, large and cumbersome, yet seeming to float in an unsteady, upright fashion. Ma-Ti stands nearby, his fingers to his head as he communicates urgently, and Wheeler realises he's giving Linka instructions below. She can't land the shaft elevator. Ma-Ti tells her to wait.

More people rush forward, and Wheeler can't believe the stupidity.

"GET OUTTA THE WAY!" Wheeler bellows. "GODDAMN IT, MOVE!"

An alarm sounds and the crowd eventually disperses to a safer distance as the elevator hovers above them. There's a blonde NBC reporter who is still too close to the landing zone, and Wheeler shoves her and the camera technician aside, in no mood for pleasantries.

The bulky container lands some distance away with a resounding bang, a cloud of dust billowing out in all directions. Kwame is the first to stagger out, along with the rescue crews. There are a few battered survivors, but the majority of the trapped employees are brought out in black vinyl body bags.

The media excitedly move in, training their audio and visual on the plastic-draped bodies like the rabid dogs they are. The flood lights are extinguished and quickly towed away on tractors, re-established above the new site.

He's alarmed to note that Linka hasn't surfaced. The mine site now lies dark and still, with the exception of a small lamp at the entrance.

He jogs over, with Gi close behind, expecting to see Linka exit at any moment, but it occurs to him that nothing is currently lighting Linka's way.

"Jesus," Wheeler says, turning pale and searching for something to set fire to, at the very least to provide a guiding light. "Ma-Ti, we need the fucking floodlights back!"

Ma-Ti doesn't answer.

_Shit._

Wheeler musters the largest flame he can manage. Five minutes pass before she finally makes her exit. A gust of wind accompanies her arrival and she lands heavily in the dirt, tumbling onto her side as they rush forward to meet her.

"Linka!" Gi gasps, helping her up. "Are you all right?"

Linka is filthy and sweaty, red-cheeked and looking exhausted. Her hair is plastered against her face, her skin bruised and bleeding.

"Only way I could…" she manages, out of breath and wincing in pain. She lurches unsteadily, clutching her shoulder. "Light disappeared… bouncing off … walls."

"One-mile trip up," Wheeler spits angrily, grabbing her around her waist as she sags against him. "Might as well have blindfolded you!"

"Couldn't see," she manages tiredly. "Bodies still… clear now… back down tomorrow."

"Like hell you are," Wheeler mutters, passing her into Gi's waiting arms.

"C'mon," Gi whispers, helping Linka hobble towards the geo-cruiser. "Let's get you lying down."

The mine shaft remains dark and silent, and Wheeler glares at the hub of reporters still swarming nearby.

He follows the girls back to the Geo-Cruiser in a decidedly pissed-off mood.

* * *

"It's just a prototype," Bakari says humbly. He clutches the object in his hands, talking excitedly to the friends seated beside him.

The four teenagers are thrilled to be here. Living on the streets of Mali with a bleak future awaiting them, a local non-profit charity found them and intervened, intent on getting the kids into the safety of a group home and regular schooling.

Wheeler is stunned at how far they've come.

From petty crime and arson to developing a portable wind turbine designed to charge small household appliances. Only thirty percent of Mali's population have access to the notoriously unstable electricity grid, and these kids have developed a renewable, clean energy source with multiple applications.

They've surpassed all expectations, creating such a complex device on their own, spending their weekends in self-imposed exile within the local science classroom, under the guidance of a dedicated teacher.

The implications are enormous — a self-sustainable device that converts kinetic energy into electricity…

And it costs a grand total of $11.56 in materials.

The patent is pending. The business plan is complete, with a little help from their resident brain, Linka. The allocation of a grant would be the icing on the cake, allowing them to launch into branding, production and eventual distribution.

The kids are wanting to market it to third world countries like themselves, for those too poor to be able to power their homes. To be able to allow people a better quality of life if conventional electricity isn't available… or affordable. Their secondary market would be organisations like Unicef and Oxfam, one of whom is already interested.

Their excitement is infectious. The massive auditorium is packed with young inventors and their families. Local political candidates are present, seeking photo opportunities in order to capture the youth vote. Shady business investors are also lurking in the wings, keen to capitalise on the room full of inquiring (and financially exploitable) minds.

Kwame leans in, looking distinctly nervous. "I do not think I can cope with the anticipation."

"Stop worryin'," Wheeler replies, but even he's struggling to maintain his usual sense of optimism. "It'll be fine."

"There's nine other finalists, it's a long shot."

"There's three grants up for grabs, dude," Wheeler assures him, amused at his friend's worried expression. "They've got a good chance."

"The competition is underwhelming," Kwame mutters, eyeing a tiny, blue-haired girl with professional signing peddling her product to curious onlookers. "Butter on a stick?"

"Unclutter your butter." Wheeler snorts with derision. "Revolutionary my ass."

"Was our butter cluttered to begin with?"

"Mine sure as hell wasn't."

"Looks like a greasy glue stick." Kwame appears baffled. "I am really not understanding the relevance."

"I'm not understandin' the whole point, to be honest."

"It is not a difficult concept," Kwame continues. "Why must we over-complicate matters?"

Wheeler scratches his head. "We have such stimulating conversations, man."

A bell rings and they're ushered into the auditorium. Wheeler wanders in behind the rest of their group, taking a seat beside one of the kids — a sixteen-year-old by the name of Kassim. He sports a four-inch jagged scar running vertically down his face, yet despite his intimidating demeanour, Kassim is quietly spoken, friendly and always ready with a smile.

Appearances can certainly be deceiving.

Formalities are already underway. A bureaucrat's booming voice sounds from the podium on stage, and Wheeler notes the thinly-veiled, political undertones.

Three more speakers take the stage — corporate sponsors and sitting board members. Wheeler stifles a yawn, cursing the lack of sleep that has been plaguing him for the last few months. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head as the utter banality and length of the presentations threaten to overwhelm him.

The anticipation builds as the winners are finally announced. They're called out in relatively quick succession and one-by-one, the successful candidates bound onto stage, excited and overwhelmed, clutching their medallions and novelty cheques and smiling for the waiting flash bulbs.

But it's the first prize announcement that sends a shockwave through the crowd.

Wheeler's jaw just about hits the floor.

The kids look horrified, their faces pale and bewildered. Not because they didn't win anything, but because even with their relative youth and lack of life experience, they understand the utter absurdity of the situation.

They keep glancing at Wheeler and Kwame for support or affirmation, or perhaps even an explanation. For once in his life however, Wheeler has nothing to say, staring at the stage with his mouth agape.

The winning invention?

A cooling device for a hot beverage.

Kwame seethes quietly, and Wheeler is fucking furious.

* * *

"Would have preferred the butter on a stick," Wheeler grumbles into Linka's thick hair. Even weeks later, he's still smarting. "Goddamn ridiculous."

"Do not take it personally," she murmurs. "Dig a little deeper and you will probably find some dishonest —"

"Dishonest? You mean blatantly corrupt? Shady as f —"

"Someone on the board may have taken incentives," Linka explains patiently. "A relative or a friend may have benefited. It was not meant to be, Wheeler."

He mutters something unsavoury under his breath but doesn't argue, his eyes settling on the television.

It's Bruce Campbell and his impressive chin on the box right now, fighting Deadites in The Evil Dead. Ash wrecks gleeful havoc with his chainsaw, and Linka watches the movie with fleeting interest, her arm lolling idly off the side of the couch. He slips his hand under her shirt, his palm warm and heavy against her skin, resting on the small of her back.

There's no blanket tonight. It's too hot; their limbs flung in every direction in an effort to cool the light sheen of perspiration covering their bodies. Her hair is unbound and flowing down her back in freshly washed waves, the ends still damp to the touch.

The warm scent of coconut drives him to distraction. The red wine isn't helping. They've downed nearly the whole bottle between them, consoling themselves after a particularly shitty couple of weeks. It's some vintage cabernet sauvignon from Bordeaux, offered to Linka by a sleazy winery owner last month. The man blatantly offered Linka a great deal more of his 'services' apparently, but she politely turned him down.

Wheeler's not complaining, since tonight he's on the receiving end of Mr Winery Owner's generosity.

He's a little tipsy. There's a pleasant haze clouding his thoughts, and it's taking longer for his brain to process the signals required for simple movement.

Linka is quiet and unmoving. He wonders if she's asleep, but the usual view of the back of her head doesn't allow for such questions to be answered.

That's the only side-effect of this sometimes wretched yet mutually agreed upon stalemate — but he's also acutely aware of losing these precious, stolen moments, as well as the quiet sense of anticipation that comes with it.

Knowing that there's always something more to look forward to the next time they find themselves here.

He wraps an arm around her waist, and Linka wriggles her body back with a sigh, her fingers flexing against the seam of the sofa. That darn issue of physiology re-enters the equation, and with every shift and well-intentioned adjustment made, she eventually follows, seeming to mirror his movements.

His final attempt to put some distance between their lower bodies fails miserably. There's nowhere left for him to go, but she intuitively nestles herself back further; her rounded bottom pressed firmly against him.

By the end of the movie it takes all he has not to start thrusting his hips at her.

 **Author's Note:** Thank you Minkel, you make my day brighter xx


	5. Chapter 5

Dry swallowing a couple of tablets, Wheeler grimaces as the bitter aftertaste tracks down his throat. The melatonin is doing sweet fuck-all, but it's a more palatable suggestion than the yoga and meditation recommended by the doctor.

The sleeping tablets are a prescribed lesser evil. He'll give them a couple of weeks, but he's not expecting much.

They're seated in the far corner, eating lunch at one of the dozens of bench-seating configurations lined up in long rows. They're sharing a mess hall today with a platoon of military grunts, and they're reluctant to be here at all. It's loud, cluttered and sweaty, only adding to headache building behind Wheeler's temples.

Kwame sits slumped over his tray, staring at nothing in particular. Gi is covered in scratches and bruises as a result of their latest mission. She seems unimpressed at the meal in front of her, shoving the meat and mashed potatoes into sloppy patterns around her tray.

There's the occasional wolf-whistle directed at both of the girls, but it's Linka who looks distinctly uncomfortable, keeping her eyes cast downward, embarrassed by the leers and inappropriate comments thrown her way.

Wheeler's had enough, his foot tapping impatiently beneath the table. "Tell me we're leavin' soon?"

"Gotta wait for Ma-Ti to finish interviewing." Gi squints down at her tray, scraping peas and mash into the shape of a flabby seal. "Needs the affidavits signed."

Wheeler stares at Gi's creation. "Didn't your Mom ever tell you not to play with your food?"

"My mother wouldn't consider this edible, so your argument is moot," she mutters, glaring at another grunt making lewd gestures two tables over. "Anyone else feeling the testosterone in here?"

"Gonna shove my tray down that guy's throat," Wheeler says through gritted teeth. "Teach him some fuckin' manners."

"Good luck with that," Gi says blandly. "You're in a room full of guys trained to kill, Wheeler."

He shrugs. "I don't think that far ahead, Gi."

"They're currently unarmed," Linka pipes up, giving him a reassuring smile. "I would put my money on you, Yankee."

Her presence soothes him somewhat. Linka's hair curls prettily over her shoulder, and he distracts himself for a while, watching her fingers working through the knots — a habit that occurs when she's nervous or feeling out of her depth.

The environment isn't helping.

There's movement over Linka's shoulder, and Wheeler glances up, eyeing an approaching figure. A young cadet swaggers towards their table, full of false bravado, encouraged from a distance by his eager table mates. He's tall and lanky with a smarmy grin, his beady eyes focused solely on an unaware Linka.

The guy looks like he's about to move in for the kill, and the death glare Wheeler levels in the man's direction is enough to make him change course rapidly. The guy heads for the restrooms instead with a defeated look on his face.

"Keep on goin', Romeo," Wheeler mutters as peals of laughter sound from the table behind them.

Linka glances around in confusion. "What —" she begins, but Wheeler just shakes his head.

Gi stabs her meat moodily. "Toxic masculinity at its finest."

Kwame attempts to distract them, steering the conversation around their next mission, and Wheeler zones out for a while. His cell phone buzzes and he glances down, not recognising the number.

He toys with it for a moment before answering it. "Yeah?"

His dad is on the other line, the words indistinguishable and somewhat slurred for an early morning call, not to mention the noise of the mess hall conversations going on around him. He plugs a finger in his ear with a frustrated sigh, his patience wearing thin.

"Speak up, dad, I can't hear you —"

The words are bellowed back with a harsh, unforgiving clarity. He's not prepared for them or expecting them, and he sits stunned, his father's words ringing in his ears. The others have quietened down, watching him with a subdued trepidation.

"What is it," Linka asks quietly, reaching for his hand. "Wheeler?"

Wheeler staggers to his feet. Stepping over the bench seats, he turns and strides towards the exit, feeling the overwhelming urge to punch something.

* * *

The fucking mold has reformed since Wheeler's last visit. It's transitioned into something from another realm entirely — white and bulbous now, with thick black threads growing from the centre. Wheeler's half expecting it to sprout arms and legs, perhaps launching into a Tom Jones rendition of "It's Not Unusual" before beginning its jaunty slide down the wall.

Wheeler's father sits in the usual el-cheapo fabric recliner with the usual beer in hand. He stares at the television, his hang-dog, droopy eyes heavy-lidded with the same fucking blank intensity. There's a large depression embedded deep within the seat cushion — an ass-print sized testament to the chair's excessive use over the years.

Distant relatives he barely knows bustle around the apartment, cleaning and sorting, whispering conspiratorially with one another. Mostly bitching and moaning about his dead mother.

She's been gone less than thirty-six hours, her body no doubt snap frozen to perfection in the city morgue, and the vultures are already circling.

His aunt is here, his mother's sister. She's a smoker herself, a cigarette dangling idly from her thin lips, and the same haggard, lined face. She also couldn't give two fucks about the newly acquired family history of lung cancer. Judging by her jumpy, erratic behaviour, Aunt Tracy is most definitely off her bipolar meds.

There's a distant cousin of Wheeler's too, garbed in her usual Adidas sweats and greasy hair, eyeing off his mother's meagre possessions. Wheeler wouldn't be surprised if her handbag was a little heftier by the time she made her eventual hasty exit.

Wheeler hit the fucking jackpot in the genetic lottery.

Cruel words are tossed around, audible through the paper-thin walls of his bedroom. He ignores it all, violently tossing his belongings into his backpack, needing an outlet for the frustration and rage building inside him.

The Star Wars posters are still stuck to the walls of his childhood bedroom. A glass sits on his night stand. Empty cigarette packets are piled up beside the bed and crumpled Kleenex litter the floor. His mother moved herself into the cramped, windowless second bedroom, no doubt a concerted effort to reduce the inconvenience of her illness. Not wanting to interrupt the sleeping patterns of her overweight sloth of a husband.

Fucking loyal to the end.

The smoke still lingers, the alcohol and sweat remain omnipresent, but despite the evidence laying scattered within Wheeler's room, his mother's presence is long gone from this place.

* * *

Tonight's movie is Hellraiser.

It suits his current mood.

He nuzzles Linka's neck, doing his best to block out the conflicting thoughts vying for attention in his head.

He's been quiet and stoic, keeping to himself for the past five weeks. Dealing with his mother's death in the way he knows best — by withdrawing from everyone.

The insomnia is bad. He's managing a couple of hours sleep per night at best and is barely operating, living on a steady diet of processed food and caffeine-based drinks.

The toiled ground is still fresh. The funeral was a fucking debacle.

There's no headstone on the grave, just a small wooden marker with her name, but Wheeler has already ordered something more fitting since his father doesn't possess the organisational skills or the mental capacity for such a transaction.

Wheeler doesn't talk about it, and Linka doesn't ask.

The grieving period has yet to eventuate. Wheeler doubts it ever will. He feels restless and irritable.

He's pissed off with his father who was slumped over a bar stool at the time his mother collapsed at home. He's angry with his mother, who died just as she lived; stubborn, unapologetic and belligerent towards the medical staff charged with her care.

He sighs, stroking Linka's thigh absently. His fingers slowly scratch back and forth, exploring the smooth lines and curves of her hips and belly, succumbing to the welcome distraction her body provides.

The hem of her shorts has risen up, exposing the underside of her bottom, and he ponders this discovery carefully.

She hasn't bothered rectifying it, which could mean one of three things — that she's oblivious to it, okay with him touching her there… or asleep. He lets out a heavy breath, tempted to find out.

"Babe," he says softly. "You awake?"

"Mmm," she mumbles, and he mentally scratches the third option off the table.

"Just checkin'."

"Are you all right?" she eventually asks.

"Uh huh," he replies evenly, one eye trained on the television as Pinhead's Cenobite buddies wreak havoc in the attic. "Yep."

"Do you want to talk about anything?"

"Nope," he replies, throwing caution to the wind and tracing the skin beneath the lacy hem of her pyjama shorts. "I'm fine."

But he's not, really. He's unsettled and beyond exhausted. He's also horny as hell, and the fucking movie isn't helping things either, with its overtly sexual overtones.

His fingers resume their exploration, and she moves slowly against him, encouraging him further. His palm glides over the curve of her bottom, smoothing over her skin. He doesn't linger there for long, his fingers skating back up to a safer PG-13 destination, more for her benefit than his.

He's testing the waters, almost asking for permission, acting like they're still teenagers instead of two adults in their mid-twenties with a fair amount of sexual experience between them.

Just not with each other.

She pushes back against him, nudging him gently. Wheeler groans, pulling her close and curling his body around hers, seeking comfort.

His thoughts are a convoluted, aroused mess right now.

There are things on his mind though, things that are bothering him no end, and here in this sacred time and space, he feels safe enough to unload them.

"Stubborn," he says softly, brushing Linka's thick hair aside. "Right to the end."

"Hmm?"

"My mom," he explains, and she stirs against him. "Pulled her canula out just before she died. Told the specialist to go fuck himself."

Linka reaches for his hand, folding it within her own. "Really?"

"Yep."

"She was probably frightened, Yankee," she whispers. "Might have been her way of dealing with it."

"Maybe."

"How do you feel about it all?"

He shrugs dismissively. "It is what it is. Can't change nothin'."

"How was the funeral?"

"Depressing."

"And your father?"

"He's used to my mom tying his fucking shoes," Wheeler says bitterly. "Doesn't even know how to operate a microwave. I wouldn't be bettin' on him."

"Is he looking after himself?"

He sighs. "Probably not."

"What are you going to do?"

He shakes his head, at a loss, because he doesn't have an answer to that question.

"Are you sleeping?" she asks gently, taking advantage of his willingness to talk.

"A little."

"But not a lot?"

He smiles, nudging the back of her head with his forehead. Linka knows him too well. "No, not a lot."

"Hmm."

"Can't get anything past you, babe."

"True."

He throws caution to the wind, his hand wandering back beneath her shorts again. Linka doesn't stop him, not even when his fingers stray further, edging delicately along the inner crease of her panties. His hand follows the motion of her body as Linka pushes back against him, her breathing deep and ragged.

She wants more, he can tell. She'd give herself to him without complaint.

The way she shifts her legs, and the soft, contented noises issuing from her mouth.

But just as she tempers him with her words, he'll temper her with his actions.

Wheeler wants her to want him. He wants her to admit it. He wants her to fucking say it. It's a petty, tit-for-tat arrangement but he's too fucking caught up in it now.

He's restless and bitter, and he's tired of feeling like a fucking inconvenience. He's sick of making the effort in every aspect of his life and being shot down in a volley of flames every fucking time. 

Perhaps he’s taking his frustration out on Linka... or maybe he's just punishing himself.

Wheeler withdraws his hand and pulls her close, burying his face in her hair with a heavy sigh.

Linka continues grinding against him. Her body is warm and firm beneath his hands, and he closes his eyes, surrendering to the steady friction building from within.

The realisation hits him.

A cold shower ain't gonna cut it tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

They’re in Cologne, special guests at the twenty-fifth G8 Summit.

Eight heads of government are present today, representing countries that control a fifty-seven percent share of the globe’s net wealth. Wheeler’s job is to facilitate a shift in economic policies, designed to reflect and preserve the funding needed for climate change.

He has outdone himself, giving an impassioned, rousing presentation to a delegation of world leaders. The applause is unanimous as he steps away from the lectern, the noise still ringing in his ears.

Wheeler didn’t write it. The speech was drafted in consultation with one of their major sponsors. Some anonymous monkey behind a desk pens the words while he delivers them, basking in the reflected glory. Doesn’t seem fair, really, but it’s the way things are done in this world — even the presidents, politicians and prime-ministers assembled here would be woefully incapable of preparing their own verbal prose.

In typical Wheeler style, a couple of unscripted obscenities may have slipped in, but only Clinton, Chrétien and Blair would have understood them, anyway. He’s assuming that the interpreters will choose to omit the odd ‘f’ bomb that passed via his lips.

Linka mentions the casual swearing during one of the breaks, her eyebrow arched and a disapproving look on her face, but he waves her off. He really couldn’t give a shit.

“We must maintain a level of professionalism,” she chastises, teetering behind him on her high heels as he samples several items from the impressive spread of food laid out before them. “We are here representing —"

“Uh huh,” Wheeler deadpans, trialling a sliver of something gelatinous smeared on a square cracker and immediately regretting his decision. He makes a face, looking for somewhere to spit it. “God, this is disgusting…”

“— the interests of an organisation with a clear and important agenda, and it is our responsibility to —”

“Yep."

Linka rattles on, pink cheeked and slightly breathless, and he straightens, watching her intently until she finally wears herself out. She looks particularly gorgeous today, dressed in a charcoal grey pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt. Her hair is swirled into a loose French braid, and Wheeler has amused himself no end watching her attempt to stay upright, wobbling precariously in her high heels.

There’s a soft drink clutched in one dainty hand and a plate of canapes in the other, so she’s powerless to stop him from impulsively stuffing the unused portion of his snack into her small hand bag. It’s payback for shoving ice down the back of his shirt during the morning break, and he relishes the indignant squawk she levels in his direction.

“Wheeler! You —”

“Your buddy’s comin’,” Wheeler announces, nodding towards a silver-haired man striding in Linka’s direction with a somewhat hopeful look on his face. Judging by his reddened cheeks and leering grin, Yeltsin is no doubt already onto his fourth vodka by now.

Linka blanches and hurries off, disappearing into the crowd without a second glance, allowing Wheeler to continue mingling.

He’s introduced to Big Bill during the lunch break and they chat for a while, indulging in topics such as golf and sports cars. He seems like a pretty decent bloke, friendly and engaging. In a room filled with purveyors of broken promises, Bill seems genuine enough. Wheeler does feel like pointing out the obvious, though — that in retrospect, he probably should have sprung for Monica Lewinsky’s dry-cleaning bill.

Would have avoided a fair tonne of shit going down.

But he keeps his trap shut. Diplomacy is becoming easier with time. Maturity and responsibility seem to come complete with a brain-to-mouth filter.

They depart the Museum Ludwig sometime after lunch, leaving the distinguished heads of state to battle it out. They head out into the afternoon sun, intent on taking some time for themselves.

They find a café on the River Rhine, not far from the museum. It’s a cute little outdoor establishment with fairy lights and views of the city. The menu is in German, but after nine years doing this job, Wheeler’s pretty sufficient at picking out what NOT to eat in foreign countries.

He learnt that the hard way. Just the thought of blutwurst makes Wheeler’s stomach turn.

Linka ducks out with Gi to wire her usual money order, and with the length of time they’re taking, he assumes shopping is probably on the agenda, too. The guys sit around talking, drinking steins of beer, enjoying the sunshine and the ambience.

“You did an incredible job today, Wheeler,” Ma-Ti says admiringly. Regardless of his more advanced age, Ma-Ti still looks up to Wheeler with a certain amount of hero worship. “We were very impressed.”

“Thanks.’

“You sounded so professional.”

“You sound so surprised,” Wheeler replies, scooping an abnormally large piece of baked brie onto his cracker and stuffing it whole into his mouth. “Worried I was gonna tell ‘em all to go to hell?”

“No, not at all.” Ma-Ti leans back, adjusting his sunglasses and smiling at a passing waitress. “All right. Maybe.”

Kwame looks dubious. “Do you think any of your speech got through to them?”

“Not a chance,” Wheeler says flatly.

“I had the same thought.”

“Nothin’ will change. It’s the nature of politics. They’ll spend their budget surplus on their own fuckin’ salary increases.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re becoming quite disgruntled in your old age?” Ma-Ti says.

“Has anyone ever mentioned you bare an uncanny resemblance to Lou Diamond Phillips?” Wheeler takes a sip of his drink, pointing at Ma-Ti accusingly. “And I’m twenty-six, ya little asshole. Hardly past my use-by date.”

“Who’s Lou Diamond Phillips?”

“Purveyor of all things Richie Valens.”

“Huh?”

Wheeler laughs. “I’ll add ‘La Bamba’ to your awesome eighties hit list, man.”

“Alright,” he sighs, glancing up as the Linka and Gi head toward them.

Gi’s pin-stripe jacket and matching skirt look very professional. Neither of the girls tend to wear much make-up, but she’s applied a generous amount today. Gi looks soft and pretty, her black hair falling to her shoulders and moving about in the breeze.

Linka’s hands are empty, with the exception of the pate-smeared handbag hanging idly from her shoulder. In stark contrast, Gi is laden up with a ridiculous amount of shopping. She heads straight for Wheeler, her eyes mischievous and gleaming, and he holds his hands out in a gesture of defiance, knowing what’s coming next.

“No. No. No. Go away —”

He grunts as Gi tosses the bags into his lap. Linka drops into the seat beside him, removing her shoes and grinning as the next five minutes are devoted to a mind-numbing session of show and tell.

“Gi,” he groans. “Unless it’s lingerie, I really couldn’t give a —"

“On. Sale. SO cheap.” A purple sweater with dolphins is thrust toward him. “Half price, and I got these really cute jeans and —”

“I don’t care —”

She wraps a thick scarf around his neck. “Got matching gloves and —”

He stares her down. “Pink’s really not my color, Gi.”

“— these cute little pyjamas,” she continues, tossing more shit into his lap. “There was an art gallery across the road from the bank too, but the painting I liked was too —”

“Expensive,” Linka finishes for her.

“Yeah,” Gi sighs, shrugging out of her top and pulling the dolphin-infested sweater down over her arms and chest. “Did you see my demim jacket?”

“Yes,” Wheeler says pointedly.

Gi shows him anyway.

“Why the hell do you insist on showin’ me all this?”

“You love it,” Gi smirks, grabbing her purchases and stuffing them back into the bags. Using her foot to push her bags under the table, she finally flops into her seat and helps herself to some brie. “Are we staying for dinner?”

“We have nowhere else to be right now,” Kwame says. “Might as well make the most of it.”

“Did you buy anything, Linka?” Ma-Ti asks.

Linka smiles, shaking her head. “No.”

“That dress looked absolutely amazing on you,” Gi sighs. “The guy working the counter was practically drooling.”

“It is fine,” she says softly. “I do not need it.”

“No,“ Gi says patiently. “But I know you wanted it. You tried it on like three times.”

“It was 150 marks —" 

“Euros,” Gi corrects, reminding Linka of the currency change currently crawling its way through the European Union. “Should have bought it, Lin.”

“I have nowhere to wear it —"

“So, create an opportunity!”

“I prefer not to wear dresses, she says, a half-hearted attempt to talk herself out of a purchase. “I am never comfortable in them.”

“You’re crazy,” Gi mutters. “Made your boobs look like a million bucks.”

“Yep.” Wheeler’s fleeting interest is suddenly piqued. He leans forward and scoops more brie onto his cracker. “Should have bought it, babe.”

“Oh, big surprise, there,” Gi scoffs. “You’re only interested in our shopping adventures now that Linka’s boobs are involved.”

“I’ll always be a vocal advocate for cleavage rights,” Wheeler shrugs. “Wear ‘em loud and proud, ladies.”

“Really? How supportive of you.”

“Yep.” He skulls his beer and stretches out leisurely, taking in the scenery around him. “Equal opportunities for all shapes and sizes.”

“Is that your motto?”

“Uh huh,” Wheeler drawls. “Founding member of the anti-inflation discrimination coalition.”

“Do you stand for freedom of expression?” Gi laughs, pointing at Linka’s chest accusingly. “Do you have any strike action planned on the matter of overly restrictive clothing?”

“Hell yeah,” Wheeler sighs. “I’ll be wavin’ my placard on the picket line —"

“I would like a drink,” Linka announces loudly, swatting Wheeler across the head as Ma-Ti and Gi sit cackling around the table. “My breasts are closed for discussion.”

“Should have bought it,” Gi mutters, elbowing Linka lightly.

They order their meals, and the evening becomes quite a rowdy affair. There’s laughter, a lot of alcohol and even more light hearted ribbing. The drinks flow, and by the times their plates have cleared, the five friends are feeling full and relaxed.

Evenings such as this don’t happen often, and Wheeler treasures them greatly.

For a few precious hours he forgets his troubles — his mother dead and rotting in the ground, his fucked-up family straight out of a Jerry Springer episode and the general feeling of discontentment shadowing his life. He relegates them even further to the back of his mind, trying to enjoy the rest of the evening.

He sits quietly, content to observe the others for a while as they talk amongst themselves.

Maintaining his usual cheery disposition has become quite draining, of late.

Ma-Ti eventually strikes up a conversation with a pretty brunette university student. Gi has become alarmingly giggly, and Linka just looks tired, courtesy of the two bottles of wine they’ve polished off between them. They sit together, their heads bowed conspiratorially, although Linka looks like she’s looking for an excuse to curl up against Gi’s shoulder.

It occurs to Wheeler that he may not be the only one having trouble sleeping. He’s also aware that his complicated girl seems to possess a much lower sense of self-worth than he ever realised. There’s a proven track record of not allowing herself things she clearly wants. The confident, plucky and independent traits he knows so well seem to belie a multitude of deep-seated insecurities.

Linka is an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in a mouth-watering, five-foot-eight hourglass figure.

The object of his musings excuses herself eventually, wobbling her way towards the rest room, and the remaining Planeteers fall silent for a while.

Wheeler sighs tiredly. He glances around, realising they’re another person short. Ma-Ti is missing, although he’s not alarmed, nor is he surprised.

Gi seems to have noticed Ma-Ti’s absence as well. “The Phantom strikes again,” Gi says with a grin. “Stealth mode.”

“Like a damn ninja,” Wheeler muses.

_The Phantom._

The South American kid has recently acquired the new nickname, due to his ability to completely fucking disappear when you’re least expecting it. You could be in the middle of a deep and meaningful conversation with him and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

After thirty seconds of scanning, Wheeler finally spots Ma-Ti amongst the crowd, wandering down the sidewalk with the same cute brunette from before.

“Ah, to be young again,” Wheeler says, amused. He salutes in Ma-Ti’s direction. “Play on, brave soldier.”

“The kid’s a chick magnet,” Gi grumbles. “Got a girl waiting for him in every city.”

Wheeler folds his hands behind his head. “Taught him everything he knows.”

“What, not to get his dick stuck in his zipper,” she replies blithely, and Wheeler bursts out laughing.

“Somethin’ like that,” he says, smiling. “My powers of persuasion seem to be on the decrease, lately.”

“Your powers haven’t changed, Wheeler,” she says, giving him a sad smile. “You’re no longer using them on the countless vapid fan-girls who bat their eyelids at you.”

She’s watching him carefully, a pensive look on her face as she glances toward the bathroom. Gi knows him better than anyone. She’s aware of his unsavoury track record, bedding women like it was an Olympic sport during his late teens and early twenties. She’s also aware of the reason he gave them up, holding out for someone seemingly well beyond his reach.

Gi smiles at him encouragingly. “I think we’re all a little lacking in the relationship department these days.”

“Speak for yourself, Gi,” Kwame says quietly.

“I haven’t had a date in twelve months,” Gi bemoans, peering at her hands, her shoulders slumped and defeated. “Do you know how long it’s been since I —”

“Do not finish that sentence.” Kwame clears his throat nervously. “Don’t you dare." 

“There’s a night club down the road, Gi,” Wheeler grins. “Show a little leg. Might be a good place to start —”

“We are not having this conversation,” Kwame interrupts, rubbing his temples. He’s like an older brother figure to them all, and the girl’s sex lives in particular have always made him squeamish. He changes the subject with lightning speed. “Was Linka able to get in touch with her —”

“Things aren’t good,” Gi says softly. “She said there’s issues at the border. Bombings and stuff. Some wannabe gangsters have moved themselves into her village, too.”

“Really?” Wheeler looks at Gi, mildly alarmed. “Have they —”

“They haven’t harassed her grandmother… yet. But they’re forcing the local businesses to pay up for so-called protection.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs just as Linka returns, sinking tiredly into her chair. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and she looks ready for bed.

The bill arrives. The usual argument erupts, but Wheeler manages to wrench the cheque out of Kwame’s iron grip regardless. Kwame grumbles his thanks as they get to their feet, grabbing their jackets and retrieving Gi’s bulky shopping bags. Ma-Ti is still missing in action, but he’ll make contact when he’s good and ready.

He always does.

They trudge off into the night, heading back to the hotel. Wheeler lags behind distractedly, switching his phone back on and sighing at the fifteen missed phone calls that flash accusingly on his screen.

Most are from his Dad. It’ll be three in the morning back home, so he makes a mental note to ring back when he wakes up. He’s exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open, but despite the alcohol consumed tonight, Wheeler foresees another night of mindless tossing and turning.

The girls have slowed to a stop out the front of a department store window. They’re jostling one another, in the midst of a minor argument.

There’s clothing displayed on mannequins inside the window, pastel-colored women’s apparel with cute accessories. The girls stand huddled together, eying a low-cut, lavender dress with a pinched waist and capped sleeves. The fabric drapes softly around the knees, and it’s very feminine and floaty.

He assumes it’s the purchase that never eventuated. Linka seems to be wavering, biting her lip. She stares longingly at the dress for a few moments before her resolve seems to strengthen. She dismisses Gi and wanders away with Kwame, with her exasperated best friend following behind.

Wheeler glances at the dress again. Christmas is still a few months away, but it’s unlikely they’ll be in Cologne any time before the end of the year.

He splits from the rest of the group, pulling a phantom move of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

Kwame winces as he takes a sip of his drink.

“Too hot?” Wheeler says sarcastically, gesturing toward Kwame’s coffee. “I know somethin’ that’ll —”

“Do NOT even go there, Wheeler,” Kwame says sternly. “I remain morally outraged by the panel’s decision —"

“It’s not difficult,” Wheeler mutters tiredly. “If it’s too hot, ya wait a couple of minutes.”

Kwame grunts in response, staring into his frothy milk as the waitress bustles past their table. “We are all becoming slaves to convenience.”

“Are we really turning into a society that needs to be spoon fed this utter crap? Why should dumb-ass, unnecessary shit like that come before the environment?”

“Consumerism at its finest,” Kwame replies.

“Just pisses me off,” Wheeler grumbles. “Everyone’s just out for themselves. Don’t care who they tread on to get ahead. Gettin’ beyond a joke.”

Kwame takes another sip of his coffee and eyes Wheeler with concern, seeming to note the frenetic foot-tapping going on beneath the table.

“Are you all right, my friend?”

Wheeler blinks, startled. “Huh?”

Kwame gestures toward him. “You seem quite tired and stressed… which is understandable given your current circumstances, however I am concerned that you are—”

Wheeler gives him a wry smile. “Wound tighter than a two-buck watch?”

Kwame smiles. “Yes, I think that would suffice.”

“Yeah.” Wheeler exhales a harsh breath, rubbing his face blearily. “Got a lot goin’ on. My head’s all over the place right now.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Just tired,” he murmurs. “Decent night’s sleep would probably help.”

Kwame looks unconvinced. “Is that all?”

Rearranging his cap, Wheeler sits hunched over the table, toying with his food. “I’ve had three calls from dad this week. Cryin’ and shit. I’ve been half way across the world and unable to do nothin’ about it except ring the neighbours to check on him.”

Kwame purses his lips. “Wheeler, maybe you should have taken more time —”

“He told me to go,” Wheeler says, choosing to omit the vulgar manner in which his father conveyed that message. “He didn’t want me to stay.”

“But at least time for you to grieve with family and friends —"

Wheeler gives a bitter laugh. “Most of my ol’ crew are either doin’ time in the crowbar hotel, or completely fucked up on drugs —”

“But surely your family would have —”

“Spent most of their time shakin’ me down for money at the funeral,” he laments. “Cuz I’m somewhat famous, so that must make me rich, apparently.”

“I think you needed more time, Wheeler.”

“You guys are my support network,” he says quietly. “What else am I gonna do? Where else would I go?”

Kwame nods, his brown eyes full of compassion. “What are you going to do about your father?”

“I think I’ve reached the point where it’s all or nothin’, in all honesty,” he sighs, staring at his hands. “Gonna have to make a decision either way.”

Kwame barely flinches. He seems completely unsurprised at the admission. “You know I will support whatever you decide.”

Wheeler nods, his eyes following a young family as they enter the cafe and take a seat at a nearby booth. “You know about the EDF throwin’ themselves at me?”

“What do you mean?”

“They want me to work for ‘em,” he says, taking a sip off his drink. “Thought Gi might have mentioned something to you?”

“No,” Kwame says quickly, his eyes wide. “No, just that you were… You’ve been offered a job?”

Wheeler lets out a heavy breath, because he’s been avoiding broaching the subject with anyone else. He shrugs, running his fingertips over the timber grain of the café table setting.

“New York location. Private office. Hundred and fifty grand a year. Ability to work from home if needed. Medical and dental. Six weeks paid vacation per year.” He rattles off the terms of the contract from memory, and Kwame appears suitably impressed. “They keep uppin’ the conditions and I keep givin’ them the same response…”

“Which is?”

“I’ll think about it.”

”Goodness,” Kwame says softly, which is as close as he’ll ever come to uttering an expletive. “Are you going to take it? You would be mad not to?”

“I’m thinkin’ about it.” Wheeler shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Fed up with everything here and —"

Kwame looks surprised, and Wheeler is quick to clarify. “No, no, there’s no issue with you guys,” he assures Kwame. “Just frustrated with the way things are done. Everything we do seems to serve no purpose, you know? The problems are deeper, but we only scratch the surface. It’s gettin’ me down and it’s only gonna get worse.”

“Yes.” Kwame nods, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. “Yes, I think we all know exactly what you mean.”

“It’s pissin’ me off.”

“There is an undercurrent of apathy that runs through our work,” Kwame says. “I have noticed it too. I think we are all coming to the same conclusion.”

“Regular, nine to five job,” he says softly, almost admiringly. “I can keep my distance but look in on my Dad from time to time.”

“It is a generous offer.”

“What do you think?” Wheeler watches him curiously, waiting for Kwame’s perspective on the matter. The man is nothing but honest and forthright in all matters, traits that he has come to appreciate over the years. “Do you think I should take it?”

“We all need to move on at some point, Wheeler. Gaia was very clear on this fact. We’ve given the cause close to nine years now. As Ma-Ti would say — the stars seem to be lining up in your favor.”

“I don’t know what to do. I’m in two minds.”

“Hypothetically,” Kwame begins, pinching his hands into a steeple and watching him carefully. “Hypothetically… what is stopping you?”

“There’s a complication,” he sighs, leaning back and staring at his untouched slice of cake. “Big fuckin’ complication.”

“Okay. I see where this is going.” Kwame sighs, rubbing his temples, no doubt an effort to dispel the headache he and Linka perpetually create. “Have you told your complication any of what you’ve just told me?”

“No,” he voices. “No, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

Wheeler shrugs, staring down at his hands. “Because it’s complicated.”

“All right,” Kwame says, seeming to steel himself for the conversation about to unfold. “Have you told her how you feel?”

“Are you serious?” Wheeler stares at him. “Uh, only ninety-thousand times —”

“No,” Kwame says patiently. “I’m not talking about the flirting, innuendos and lewd suggestions. Have you actually sat down and had an honest conversation with her?”

“No,” he says despondently, avoiding Kwame’s eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, because in all honesty, he can’t come up with a valid reason, other than the fear of rejection and doubt that has crept into his mind.

“Linka adores you,” Kwame says, as if this knowledge alone should be enough to right all wrongs. “She always has. Gi —"

“She’s waitin’ for somethin,” Wheeler mutters. “Don’t think it’s me.”

“What will you do?”

"Dunno." Wheeler sighs. “One way or the other, I’m gonna have to let her go.”

“Are you going to tell her about the job offer, at the very least?”

Wheeler gives a bitter laugh, pushing his plate aside with resignation, that familiar restlessness and uncertainty brewing from within.

“Maybe next year.”

* * *

Wheeler’s boots squelch through the thick mud, his feet pulling free on several occasions. Thick and cloying, he hoists himself through step by step, struggling to keep his balance. The dense liquid coagulates between his toes, slippery and oozing, and judging by Gi’s annoyed grunts nearby, he assumes she’s in the same situation.

It’s starting to rain too, and he swears under his breath, wondering how else this day can get any crappier.

A simple nine to five desk job is looking pretty darn appealing right now.

“Dammit,” he says bitterly, reefing his leg up and taking another large step, over-compensating for the lack of mobility.

His phone rings, and Wheeler has no choice but to pause the long-winded muddy pilgrimage, his boots sinking back into the quagmire as he fumbles to answer it.

It’s his father again. He closes his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the next abusive onslaught.

His dad certainly doesn’t disappoint.

The dishwasher has flooded. The neighbors are stealing his things. There are hidden cameras in the ceiling. Everyone’s against him. Deb’s death is a conspiracy. She’s not dead. She talks to him. Tells him things. Whispers things in his ear when he’s sleeping.

Wheeler stands rigidly, doing his best to talk his father down. He’s calm and assertive, even when the usual terms of endearment start getting thrown around like confetti — the varied vocabulary from his desolate childhood, spewed with the same vitriol and hatred.

Useless. Wish you were never born. Good for nothin’. Burden. Embarrassment. Fuckin’ bum.

His father is still ranting. Self-preservation kicks in and Wheeler hangs up mid-sentence, shoving his phone into his pocket, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

They’re on opposite sides of the globe. His dad has rejected any offers of assistance. Wheeler has found himself unwelcome in the family home. His recent attempts have been met with anger and resentment. He was kicked out after his last visit, narrowly avoiding a concrete ashtray pegged at back of his head.

His dad refuses any help, yet Wheeler is fielding anywhere between five and ten phone calls per day, each tirade getting progressively worse, and it’s wearing him down.

Nick’s words should be water off a duck’s back. From a family of abject failures, Wheeler knows that he’s the exception to the rule. He’s succeeded in life despite their toxic influence, but the same rage and resentment builds regardless, stemming from his childhood.

The words still burn like fire. The casual indifference and lack of empathy still leave an indelible mark and he sighs heavily, eyeing Ma-Ti’s retreating figure just beyond the village.

Small hands settle gently on his waist. Wheeler’s boots are completely submerged again and he twists awkwardly, noting Linka struggling beside him. He grabs her under the arm as she falls into a helpless heap against him.

She grins up at him in thanks, her face serene and joyful, and his day becomes a little brighter. 

“Who was that?” she asks, wiping her face with the back of her hand and tracking mud across her forehead. “Your father?”

“Yep.”

“Is he all right?”

“Nope,” he says, grabbing her elbows as she sways in the thick sludge. “I think you’re sinkin’, toots.”

“What did he want?” she asks, ignoring his attempt to deflect the question. “Is he all right?”

“The usual,” he mutters. “Drunk and pissed off. World’s against him.”

“Are you sure he is all right?” she asks, her lopsided pony-tail swinging in the breeze. “You have had many phone calls this week?”

“He’s all piss and wind,” Wheeler replies without much conviction. “I’ll ring him back tonight, babe. He’s got a social worker booked in to visit in the morning, too.”

Linka peers up at him worriedly. Her hands settle lightly on his chest, smoothing over his stomach before ducking into the front pockets of his sweatshirt. She leans in wearily, nudging his chest with her forehead.

His fucking phone rings again. The incessantly chirpy tone feels like nails on the chalkboard. Wheeler sets his jaw, flustered, running a hand through his filthy hair but making no move to answer it.

The tone abruptly cuts off after the eleventh ring, and he swears quietly under his breath.

“Wheeler?” she asks after a moment, tugging gently on his pockets.

He rubs his face tiredly, staring fixedly at a point beyond Linka’s shoulder, because if he looks her in the eye, he’s gonna crumble.

Because the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Maybe his Dad is right. Maybe he’s nothing. Perhaps he is indeed useless, a fucking bum.

Perhaps he’s a complete fucking burden, unworthy of loyalty or respect or even outright love.

Maybe Linka has spent all this time humoring him in a vain attempt to let him down easy, but he’s been too stupid to —

“Yankee,” she whispers.

As if sensing his frenzied thoughts, Linka draws him in, cradling his head in her arms and holding him tightly. Her fingers stroke loosely through his hair, soothing him, and Wheeler shuts his eyes, pressing his face into her neck with a heavy sigh.

There’s clarity when he’s in her arms.

There’s something there.

There’s something between them. It’s a re-affirmation of everything good — and a firm shut-down of everything bad. The errant thoughts vying for attention fade into the background.

Her heart beats just as loud.

Her breath trembles just as much.

Her mouth presses just as hard, searing into the flesh of his neck as they sway together, drawing comfort from one another.

Wheeler hugs her back, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla, hoping the unexpected rush of endorphins will be enough to get him through the grand fuckery that has so far plagued his week.

She kisses his cheek and gives him a squeeze, and he reluctantly releases her as Gi traipses their way, looking just as heavy footed.

“Anyone else up to their eyeballs in this shit?” she mutters blandly.

“Yep.”

“Ugh.” Gi gives them a half wave. She trudges past one careful step at a time, her arms outstretched in an effort not to topple over.

The skies open up and it begins to rain harder. His boots fill with water, flowing over the rim but at this point in time, he’s well beyond caring.

Linka’s attempts to drag herself free are failing miserably. She looks like a drowned rat. Her clothes hang from her small frame, and her face is pale and drawn.

Wheeler worries about her. He knows he has no right or claim to her, but he worries all the same.

He worries about leaving her.

She looks exhausted.

He slips an arm around her waist, leaning close and rubbing the grainy smudges from her forehead with the pad of his thumb. Linka stops struggling, allowing herself to sink back into the squalor. She tilts her face towards him, closing her eyes and surrendering to this small, intimate moment.

He traces her face lovingly, his fingers stroking through her hairline and down the side of her cheek, committing every line and contour to memory. His thumb passes over her lips, and Linka’s breath trembles, a soft sigh escaping her.

“You okay, babe?”

Kwame’s distant voice breaks the trance, calling Linka’s name. She blinks away the rain, gazing up at him forlornly, seemingly on the verge of saying something to him before thinking better of it.

“No,” she eventually whispers, rubbing her face tiredly as Kwame’s now irate voice floats over the wind again. 

There’s no sign of those lingering scents now, washed away by the rain or masked by the mud. She’s overwhelmed and filthy and tired, but it doesn’t matter. He adores Linka at her best and accepts her at her worst.

She trudges away wearily, glancing back several times with the same look of longing he recognises so well.

Frustration flares again, brewing and bubbling in the pit of his stomach, churning to volcanic proportions. His work and his life and his family are falling apart spectacularly, yet she’s still the bright flashing neon light at the forefront of his thoughts, the string holding everything together.

The threads are fraying however, and something’s gonna have to give.

He’s at a complete fucking loss as to why he can’t let her go after all these years. How she can turn him down by day and turn him on at night, silent and secret, writhing together until they’re both fucking frantic with it.

Neither of them can close the deal. Linka is just as bewildered by all this, just as confused. Just as overwhelmed. He knows that.

But at the end of the day, they’re both still wedged securely in thick, cloying mud. They’re still bound by circumstances and tethered to invisible agreements, still stuck in this insufferable stalemate.

Still adhering to the arrangement that neither of them really agreed upon in the first place, one that has become both a blessing and a curse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for sexual themes. May be triggering for some readers.

He can’t see a fucking thing.

The air is thick and choking. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth, and he wonders what toxic concoction of poisons are making their way through his bloodstream, corrupting his nervous system and rendering him so fucking uncoordinated he can’t see or walk straight.

Gi is tucked securely within his arm, barely able to stand, and he drags her on, half carrying her semi-conscious weight. She’s babbling incoherently as they stumble blindly through the maze of corridors.

He has no idea where the others are. He can't reach Ma-Ti. Linka has only just returned from Russia, having moved her family and most of her village to safety after mortar shells began falling from the sky.

Last thing he knew, she was searching desperately for the mainframe, trying to prevent all hell from breaking loose.

Too late.

He hopes to hell she's not somewhere in here.

Doctor Blight has hit a new low. Why stand and fight when you can pump deadly chemicals through the filtration systems, rendering those unfortunate souls inside incapacitated within minutes.

Blight’s own employees are included within this grand scheme. Loyalty means nothing. Some of her workers lie spreadeagled across the floor as they pass, retching and coughing, in the throes of madness. They reach for him, grabbing at his ankles, screaming and pleading, but he can’t help them.

He can barely help himself.

He blinks away the hallucinations. They’re real and intense; dark shapes and shadows shifting in the gloom. Long, mournful faces forming, mouths captured in an elongated, twisted parody of a smile.

They disappear just as quickly, only to resurface around each corner, taunting him with their presence.

The lights blink on and off, and the power is evidently failing. Perhaps it’s one of MAL’s failsafe mechanisms, designed to seal them inside what will eventually become their tomb.

Wheeler can’t find the exit. They’re like rats in a fucking maze. Gi is screaming now — her body jerking in fright as she tries to break away and flee the apparitions haunting her, but Wheeler won’t let her go.

Wheeler’s eyes are stinging and his throat is burning. It’s hard to breathe. Muscles he wasn’t even aware of ache painfully.

A woman lies curled in a foetal position, her body convulsing on the floor. Wheeler has no choice but to stagger over her. He glances back and stumbles in fright.

His mother’s face stares back, her arms outstretched. She reaches for him, her mouth long and distorted in a mournful scream.

Shock hits him hard. He shoulders the wall, doubled over and clutching Gi in a panic. His mother-thing crawls toward him, her face flickering darkly, her movements jerky and frightening, like something out of one of his fucking horror movies. Her voice is in his head, bitter and accusing. Even in death, he gains no respite from her criticisms and his apparent failings as a son.

Gi sobs desperately, her eyes fixed elsewhere as she faces her own demons. Scratching and clawing at an unseen entity, she slumps in his arms, and the downward momentum ensures that he has no choice but to follow.

They collapse in a heap, coughing and spluttering as more voices join the fray, a tumultuous crescendo that reaches a fever pitch, one that either exists entirely in his head or is steeped in the reality of now.

Wheeler takes a great, shuddering breath. He’s choking and wheezing now, tears streaming from his reddened eyes as the poisons do their work.

A roaring sound assaults his ears, louder than the disembodied voices clamouring for attention. He’s buffeted by a strong gale that shakes their skin and clothes, and he grabs blindly for Gi as her body shifts and slides due to the sheer force.

Heavy footsteps and panicked voices. A dozen or so figures dash past, clad in gas masks and protective clothing. Wheeler's still shaking, tremors wracking his body, gasping for breath as a flurry of activity bursts around him.

The shadows remain. The ghoulish faces are still present, closer now. His mother’s face continues flickering. She’s melting, her skin streaming to the floor in thick globs, uncovering the skeletal grin beneath.

Gi is lifted and carried away, still screaming, and two pairs of hands descend, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him to his feet. He can barely stand, and they drag him onwards for several moments until someone kicks a door open, moving him outside into the bright sunshine.

He slumps to the ground, choking amongst a sea of writhing bodies, clawing the grass as a blast of ice-cold water hits him. The shadows are still there, even in the harsh light of day, moving and shifting. His mother now stands at the open door to the laboratory, still melted and horrific, pointing accusingly at Wheeler until he passes out from the sheer shock of it.

Hours later, when he wakes inside a darkened room, the terror is still present. He’s bathed in sweat, still fighting off invisible demons. Something clatters to the ground, and gentle hands grasp his wrists, guiding them away as he mutters and groans his mother’s name.

“Mom,” he croaks. “Don’t —”

“Sshhhh,” a woman’s voice whispers soothingly.

“Nothin,” he moans deliriously, swatting away the persistent hands still smoothing over his face and through his hair. “Good for nothin’.”

Another coughing fit takes hold and he doubles over, hacking violently, his eyes still painful and watering.

The hallucinations are receding, however. He blinks away the dissipating shadows, noting the IV line hooked into his vein and secured with tape.

It takes Wheeler a moment to establish his current whereabouts and condition. He’s been stripped down to his boxers, covered in a stiff blanket that itches his bare skin no end. They’re surrounded by stretcher beds. Huddled, bulky shapes lie beneath the same blankets, tended by a few overworked nurses. Cries and moans punctuate the darkness.

He’s propped up between someone’s legs, lying back against their chest. The smell of coconut hair shampoo begins to filter through the acidic burn of the chemicals being flushed out of his system, and he knows without a doubt that he’s with Linka.

He takes a great, shuddering breath, looking around in confusion.

“What —” he starts, but his battered lungs are no match for the chemicals. He gasps for breath, wheezing and coughing as Linka fixes the oxygen mask over his face.

“Just breathe,” she whispers. Gentle hands rub his bare back, circling in soothing motions, and he slumps tiredly against her.

“Gi all right?” he rasps, his breath fogging the mask.

Linka nods, propping her chin on his shoulder and pointing to a nearby stretcher. “They have given her a sedative. You were lucky the concentration levels weren’t higher.”

He closes his eyes. “What did that fuckin’ psychotic bitch hit us with?”

“Mixture of different things,” she whispers. “Sarin. Mustard gas. Chlorine and bromine. A few unidentifiable compounds.”

“Terrific,” he voices tiredly.

“They have given you all a dose of atropine to be on the safe side,” she says, tapping the IV. “You should be fine by tomorrow. There should not be any long lasting effects.”

He nods as she draws the blanket up to his chin, her body warm and firm beneath his back. Shifting in an attempt to get comfortable, he flinches in pain. His muscles and joints feel like they’re on fire.

“Couldn’t spring for a stretcher bed?” he grumbles.

“There were none left,” Linka answers, embarrassed. She strokes his sweaty hair away from his forehead. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

No. He doesn’t mind at all.

“Your clothes were taken away,” she says, almost conversationally. “They will need to be destroyed.”

“Uh huh,” he sighs.

“I had to strip you down myself.”

“Couldn’t wait to get me naked, huh?” he croaks disarmingly, and he senses her chuckling behind him.

“Highlight of my week,” she says, hugging him tightly.

He closes his eyes and drifts off for a while, his dreams haunting and vivid, the psychotropic compounds still working their malicious magic inside his head.

When the daylight filters in; when he stirs, blinking away the thick fog of sleep, content in the knowledge that she hasn’t left his side, a thought occurs to him.

“They’re gonna kill us, eventually,” he murmurs, tipping his head back against her shoulder. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation.

“Will you stay?” he asks. “With the group, I mean?”

“Right now?” she whispers to him, her voice tense and emotional. “Yes. I have a village back home to help protect. I do not have a choice.”

She cradles him in her arms, her thumb stroking the side of his face as he falls back into sleep.

* * *

The hallway light bulbs are missing. The staircase is dark, but Nick Wheeler’s voice rings out at the top of the landing despite the door to the apartment being firmly closed.

Wheeler takes the stairs two at a time, fumbling for his key and letting himself in, mortified by the sight that awaits him. Four figures, including the elderly lady from next door and the resident drug dealer from the floor above, all attempting to wrestle Wheeler’s father to his feet.

The apartment looks like a bomb has gone off. Splintered wood is all that is left of the timber dining table. There are holes in the walls and doors, and glass from the oven door lies shattered throughout the kitchen. The air is foul with the stink of booze and vomit.

“ _Don… need_ …” his father bellows, pulling himself free and staggering into the kitchen, his feet bare and cut to pieces. He’s dishevelled and filthy, his skin an alarming shade of yellow, and a large gash tracks down his lower arm, the blood dripping steadily onto the floor.

“Nick, you gotta calm down —"

Nick shoves the neighbor hard, sending him spinning off the wall. “ _Gedoff me_!”

“Dad…” Wheeler lunges forward, grabbing his father’s arm and hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, ya old goat. What the hell are ya —”

“ _Fugoff_ ,” he slurs, wrenching away and slapping Wheeler’s hand aside. He stumbles away, glaring back in Wheeler’s direction before dropping to his hands and knees again. “ _Good fa nothin’—”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he spits back angrily, grabbing him under the arm and trying to reef him back up. “Get up, Dad!”

“ _Whess Deb_?”

“She’s gone —”

“ _Good fa nothin’_ — he slurs again, pointing an accusatory finger in Wheeler’s direction before slipping and falling painfully on his ass. He remains where he lands, propped against the kitchen bench and staring sullenly at the worried faces gathered around.

“Jesus,” Wheeler utters, rubbing a hand over his mouth, mortified at the condition of the place. “What the hell happened?”

“Sounded like a demolition site here last night,” one of the neighbors explains, wiping sweat from his brow as he regains his breath. “Cops attended and he quietened down for a few hours. That’s when we rung you, but he started up again this morning. Cops are on their way.”

Wheeler shakes his head, pale and bewildered. Other people arrive to witness the spectacle, crowded around outside the front door, peering in and filling up on their weekly quota of gossip. His father’s antics will probably give them the fuel needed to last the rest of the month.

Cops soon arrive, followed by paramedics. Just like his late wife, Nick Wheeler fights them every step of the way, resulting in some heavy-handed tactics from a no-nonsense paramedic. Wheeler watches as his Dad is forcibly strapped down onto a gurney and wheeled out, crying and sobbing pitifully.

The officers and helpers and shameless busy-bodies eventually disperse, leaving Wheeler alone in the fetid apartment. It’s deathly quiet now, an unnatural state for his childhood home.

Wheeler doesn’t hesitate. Moving quickly, he grabs a back pack and tosses random toiletries inside. His search for clean clothes proves fruitless, so he tosses in whatever he finds lying crumpled and soiled throughout the place. His father’s wallet lies in the usual spot beside the front door and he chucks that in too.

Hoisting the bag over his shoulder, he locks the front door and steps out onto the landing, intent on following the ambulance. Sweating profusely despite the inclement weather, Wheeler clutches the banister with an iron grip; grief and guilt and remorse threatening to engulf him.

Wheeler makes it down to the fifth step before sinking down onto the staircase in a heap, pale and shaken. He takes a few moments to compose himself, running a shaky hand through his hair as the medical team disappear through the foyer doors, his father’s voice still bellowing long after they’ve disappeared from sight.

The fucking stars have aligned. The signs are flashing neon and bright, blinding him with their intensity and he can’t ignore them any longer. He can’t.

Pulling his phone out with trembling fingers, he flips the screen and scrolls through his contacts, searching for the number.

Feeling sick to the stomach, he makes the call he’s been putting off for far too long.

* * *

He sighs restlessly as he strokes Linka’s skin, his hands moving of their own accord, slipping beneath her shirt and feeling the heavy weight of her breast cradled within his palm. He plays with her nipple, rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger, observing her sharp intake of breath and the way she thrusts her chest toward his hand, offering more of herself.

Offering more of herself when in two week’s time he’ll leave her with less, if nothing at all. The irony astounds him, cruel and unusual punishment when they’ve held out for so long.

Apartment hunting. Signing employment contracts, not to mention his father’s medical forms and detox paperwork. Dealing with an abusive yet pathetically helpless parent. Flying back and forth between his two worlds with only Kwame aware of the difficult decision he’s made.

Wheeler has spent the last two weeks hauling back on the reins in a vain attempt to pull everything back together again, but it‘s no longer working. He’s reached the end of the rope, and he’s now grasping at the last lifeline available to him.

His magnificent complication lies entangled with him on a _Tuesday_ night in his hotel room, not a Friday night on the couch as the rules have previously dictated, because the fuckin’ rules can go to hell.

Fuck TGIF and fuck the couch on Hope Island. Fuck the Friday night freak-out. Fuck the arrangement.

If he wants to drag Linka from the room she shares with Gi at two in the fucking morning, then he will.

If he wants to manhandle her sleepy, warm body into his own bed during a mission, groping at her flushed skin, then he will.

And if he feels compelled to dry-hump her luscious backside at some point, he’ll fuckin’ well do that too.

Linka doesn’t appear to be averse to the new arrangement either, judging by the soft noises she’s making, and the way she gasps her approval as he gently tugs and pulls at her nipples. The usual view of the back of her head isn’t bothering him so much in the early hours of this morning, mostly owing to what her hand is doing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

She’s toying with him, her fingers curled around his erection and pumping him slowly, their undulating bodies hidden from view beneath a thick blanket of night.

He’s rock-hard and straining against her palm, thrusting up rhythmically into her hand, seeking friction to help relieve the pressure building in his head and in his life and in his loins.

“Jesus,” he groans, gripping her hips and jerking her back toward him, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises. He’s rough and impatient as he grinds into her hand desperately. Tonight, she smells of apricots, and the knowledge only serves to inflame him further.

But they have an unspoken arrangement, the last remaining vestige of an agreement carved in fucking stone. How close can they become without doing the deed — and he suspects they’re about to blur the boundaries even more.

“Lin,” he breathes into her ear, and she gives a low moan, her long, sleep-tousled hair tumbling over a face he cannot see.

There’s that voice in the back of his head, the insistent prick who tells him to slow down, to continue dragging out this game until they’re both stretched thin and wasted, but he craves something more now.

He needs to snatch back the reins in an effort to gain some fucking traction.

He flips Linka onto her stomach, a soft cry escaping her lips as he sinks down onto the back of her thighs, wrangling her into a position that suits his intended purpose. Falling forward, he pins her to the mattress with the weight of his body, shoving his hand between their bodies and wrenching her shorts and underwear down, low enough to expose the rounded curve of her ass.

She moans as he gropes her pert flesh, her skin smooth and silken to the touch. Linka arches back, rubbing her bare backside against the front of his jeans, and it’s a blatantly open invitation if he ever saw one.

He accepts without hesitation.

Fumbling with his jeans, he releases himself and shoves her face-down onto the pillow, nestling his erection between her cheeks. He moves slowly, thrusting up against her, building pleasure as his forearm locks around her throat in an effort to both steady himself and to hold her in place.

A newfound dominance enters their realm. He tightens his grip around her throat, forcing her chin back further as his breath heaves hot and ragged on her neck. Her nails clutch and drag at the bedsheets, trying to anchor herself and avoid smacking into the headboard with each forward thrust. 

The next few minutes are a fumbling, frantic and sexually charged free-for-all as she allows him to take advantage of her body for his own somewhat sadistic purposes. He’s beyond the point of caring, the single-minded focus of release the only matter clouding his mind.

She’s compliant and submissive as he uses her, fucking her without actually fucking her, knowing that he’s a mere downward thrust away from sliding balls deep into her and ending their arrangement once and for all.

But still, Wheeler finds himself resisting, still clinging to that stubborn refusal to indulge himself (and her) any further than he already has.

He works his hand between her inner thighs and the mattress instead. His fingers are tantalisingly close to the warm juncture between her legs, but the fucking angle is too awkward, and it’s pissing him off no end.

Manhandling her again, he lifts her hips and wrenches one of her knees up roughly until it’s tucked hard beneath her stomach, leaving her exposed and vulnerable to his questing fingers.

He falls forward, pinning her again, reaching down to touch her where she’s already burning up. He teases her slick flesh open with his fingers, and she sobs into the pillow, bucking and shivering beneath him. Thrusting against her ass harder, he feels her hips grinding against his hand as she loses herself to her own pleasure.

Linka tosses her head, resting her cheek on his forearm, and Wheeler is granted the rare view of the side of her face. Her eyes have lulled closed, her long lashes fluttering against pale, flawless skin. Wheeler watches her intently, fascinated by the near-delirious reaction spreading across her face when he curls two fingers deep inside her and starts pumping her hard.

It doesn’t take long, not even sixty seconds. Her breath expels raggedly against his arm and she comes violently, crying huskily into his skin, her fingers clenched almost painfully onto the edge of the mattress. He can feel her tears wet on his skin as she sags beneath him, her body going limp as his own pace intensifies.

And just like that, he knows that there’s nowhere left for them to go. The boundaries and the games and the rhetorical questions are officially over, and he wants her body and her mind and her scent lingering in his life long after he’s used her.

But that’s beyond his control now.

He lets himself go with a growl, spurting hot and wet over the flesh of her lower back and spine. He bucks and shudders, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, his heart thundering almost painfully in his chest.

They succumb to the afterglow as they catch their breath, lying slumped and sated on the bed. He eventually does his best to clean her up, using a discarded t-shirt to remove the evidence still cooling on her dampened skin.

She’s still trapped in a headlock; wedged tightly within the crook of his forearm. He releases her and she rolls heavily onto her side, her breathing slow and even.

Wheeler gathers her to him, curling around her again, burying his face in her hair with a contented sigh. His hand settles upon her hip, and he rejoices in the fact that he doesn’t need to ponder this move or debate the potential consequences… all the while knowing it will probably never go any further than this.

He grieves this knowledge more than his dead mother.

“I’m leaving the Planeteers,” he voices quietly into the messy aftermath of their heated make-out session. He’s exhausted and craving sleep, but needing to confess, needing to get it all out in the open. “I’m outta options… I’m so sorry, babe.”

“What?” she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper, but the shock hangs almost painfully in the air. “When? How long until —’

“I’m leavin’ in two weeks,” he says, his voice breaking as he hugs her tighter. “I don’t have a choice —”

“New York?”

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “I’ve already let things go on too long. Got too much to take care of now —”

“I understand, Yankee.” She reaches back for his hand, pulling it against her cheek and nuzzling his palm. “It is all right.”

He strokes her velvet skin with the pad of his thumb. “I’m so sorry babe…”

“It is all right; you are needed elsewhere.”

“It’s not the way I wanted to leave,” he says, desperately awkward now. “I shoulda’ told you earlier, but —"

She kisses his palm. “You need to do what is best.”

They lay quietly for a while, and he wonders if this is it, if this is as far as they were ever destined to go. If timing and circumstances had been different, he wonders if this complication would have eventually evolved into a bona-fide relationship.

Wheeler was hoping it would, but it’s unfair of him to pursue one now. He won’t drag her down into the hellhole he’s returning to. He won’t put her through that. She has her own issues to deal with, her own burdens to carry. Her own people to protect.

Ten years worth of missed opportunities have passed. The ship has sailed, yet they’re still standing on shore, staring bewilderedly at one another.

He’ll sleep well tonight, his mind blissfully clear but his heart heavy. Fumbling for the quilt, he tosses it loosely over their bodies, aware that she has made no move to leave.

But despite Linka’s supportive words, despite the fact she rolls over and burrows into his chest for the first time since their arrangement first began all those years ago, he can feel the tears wet on her skin as he holds her, and he knows that she’s crying.


	9. Chapter 9

Life goes on.

Wheeler spends the remaining time left between missions packing. After ten long years, he’s accumulated more belongings than he ever thought possible. The Planeteers spout the ideals of a less materialistic society, yet the shit-tonne of crap in his possession is equally impressive.

Magazines and books, orphaned power cords and cables, outdated technology and a mountain of old, well-worn clothes.

It’s time for a clean-out — three piles to sort through and he’s getting more efficient at letting go of things with ruthless abandon.

Linka usually hovers nearby on their days off, always within his peripheral vision. She paces his hut nervously, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, her fingers knotting into her hair with such ferocity that a multitude of split ends start forming.

Sometimes she helps him pack, and sometimes she talks, lamenting the loss of her town church and the greasy, scar-faced Chechen men holding her village to ransom.

Sometimes she just watches him, propped up against the far wall of his hut with Shadow’s oversized ass squeezed awkwardly into her lap, courtesy of the diligent spoiling from Gaia during their long absences. Linka strokes her black fur, hiding a smile as Wheeler stubs his toe on the same fucking bedside table he’s tripped over on countless other occasions over the years.

Every fucking time.

She purses her lips as he staggers around in pain, bellowing loudly and cursing his general misfortune.

But usually, Linka sits perched on the edge of his bed with Shadow nudging her feet, her hands clasped primly in her lap and her eyes following his movements as he bustles around the hut.

She never says anything of note, so neither does he.

But still, Wheeler knows the truth.

As the remaining days run down, her persona changes, often disappearing with Gi for hours at a time and returning red faced and tear stained, barely able to look him in the eye. Furtive glances are cast in his direction during meals when they think he’s not looking, but he’s not a complete fucking idiot.

In a way, it confirms those long-held suspicions, that she’s so accustomed to maintaining her controlled and repressed state that it’s become a way of life for her. The ice queen persona is displayed outwardly, but the last few months have proven that Linka well and truly melts for him.

Today, she’s curled up on her side, dozing on his bed, one arm tucked against her chest and the other flung in his direction. There’s a small, purpling bruise below her right eyelid, a painful reminder of an altercation she had with a Chechen separatist last week.

Wheeler dumps another box by the door and returns to the bed, sinking down wearily beside her. Her dainty fingers twitch idly, in the grip of restless sleep. The television flickers quietly in the background, a rerun of fucking “I can make a pipe bomb out of a toothpick” MacGyver playing.

Television seems to be the common thread between himself and Linka. During down times, the TV is always on. Movies, sport, dumb TV shows. There’s a theme running through their interactions, of lazy evenings enjoying one another’s company in front of some form of flickering screen.

It’s comforting and sweetly intimate.

Wheeler flops back on the pillows with a sigh, curling up beside Linka’s dozing figure. She’s achingly beautiful. Perfectly formed features, cherubic lips and long lashes. There’s a slight frown playing upon her face as she sleeps, perhaps in the midst of restless thoughts and idle dreams.

He considers waking her, struck by the urge to grab her forcibly and drag her beneath him, tearing the pretty sundress from her body. It would be so easy. Taking what he wants. Possessing her. Owning her.

Closing his eyes, he can almost feel her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her breath hot against his cheek, her body arching beneath his.

One hard thrust.

But that’s hardly fair. He won’t make her choose.

She needs to stay, and he needs to go. There’s a hopeless finality to that statement.

And he knows with absolute clarity that he’ll leave this place the same way he arrived...

Alone.

* * *

His element has yet to choose a new owner. The ring hasn’t latched itself onto some poor, unfortunate schmuck, some ignorant fool who has no fucking clue what’s coming their way. Wheeler’s not sure what that means, but it’s no longer his problem.

The timing of all this is abysmal. Christmas is just around the corner. The decorations are up, the Hope Island Christmas tree is looking splendid, courtesy of Gi’s regular impulse buying sprees.  

It’s the season to be festive, but there’s not a hell of a lot of rejoicing going on.

Linka has gone, having had no choice but to rush home.

Russia is a mess. The country’s financial instability has led to the closing down of businesses throughout the capital, and the effects are being felt further out. New parliamentary elections have incited riots, and there’s protests and a general sense of unease resonating.

The war in Chechnya is also encroaching on the border, and bombings are still being felt close to Linka’s village. The tanks are rolling in, and Linka has returned to preserve what little they have left, and to provide her beloved Nona with some piece of mind until things calm down.

It was an awkward, miserable and tearful goodbye, where as per usual they said everything they supposedly wanted to say… without saying anything at all.

Story of his life — and hers, for that manner.

But he wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her goodbye anyway, because god knows, that’s the standing order between them. When one leaves, the other moves in for the kill, and this time it was his turn.

Only seemed fair, really.

But he does leave something for her, wrapped under the tree for when she returns. A soft, billowy lavender number, wrapped in the ugliest fucking Christmas paper he could find, emblazoned with hideous bows and seventeen gift tags.

He’s used a full roll of tape on it. It’ll take her at least ten minutes to break open the damn thing, but the thought of Linka cursing him out in Russian puts a smile on his face.

His hut is packed up. The four remaining Planeteers share their last dinner together, reminiscing about the last ten years. They’re oddly quiet, the merriment long since faded. There are no quips, nor light hearted ribbing. The mood is subdued, almost depressed.

When they’re finished and the plates are cleared, they head to the Geo-Cruiser, packed and ready for Wheeler’s final journey. Gi sobs desolately, lamenting the loss of her bodyguard and verbal sparring partner. Ma-Ti is emotional, too, shaking his hand and promising to keep in touch, his eyes misting.

But it’s Kwame who accompanies him back to New York. He pilots them through foggy skies in his usual reflective, stoic manner. They don’t say much, but Kwame’s like that.

He only ever fills the silence with something profound.

He helps Wheeler carry the boxes down from the rooftop, taking the stairs down to the basement garage. His parents have a small storage cage in their allocated (and unused) parking spot. It’s already filled mostly with his mother’s possessions, discarded and shoved aside until someone organises for the local goodwill to come and collect them.

There’s no formal hand shake waiting for him, but a warm, solid bear hug. Kwame seems genuinely at a complete loss. They eventually bid one another goodbye.

It’s not in Kwame’s character to outstay his welcome.

The staircase light remains broken. His parent’s apartment is cold and quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Wheeler lets himself in with a resigned sigh. He drops his bags and backs up against the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, surveying the scene.

His father’s blood still streaks the floor. The oven door remains shattered. A timber chair leg lies discarded by the couch, splintered wood littering the filthy carpet.

The mold is still there, as is the vomit. The stench is unbearable, cloying and wretched. The heating has been off for several days and as per usual the condensation is back, forming on the walls and quietly encouraging new spores to begin their impressive journey toward bacterial adulthood.

It’s the circle of life: that nature has a way of repeating itself. The damn mold always returns, just as he has — finding himself back in the family home after ten years and fucking devastated as all hell about it.

He blinks tiredly, wandering to his old room and sinking down on the bed, curling onto his side and recalling the feel of her warm body pressed against his.

It’s both a memory and a curse.

He’ll stay tonight, then he’ll never set foot in this place again.

* * *

The ink is still drying on the lease. For the first time in his life, he has a home of his own. It’s surreal — twenty-seven years of age and he’s never lived by himself. Having shared with family, fellow street punks and good friends, the thought of being completely independent both thrills and terrifies him at the same time.

Brooklyn is changing. No longer the crime capital of the New York boroughs, some areas are gaining popularity amongst trendy hipsters and young professionals. His new home is located in Sunset Park, a good thirty-minute commute from work.

It’s a two-bedroom, double storey place on a quiet, leafy street. He chose to maintain a high quality of life in a cheaper suburb rather than stretch himself thin in the name of convenience and status. 

There’s a young family living to the left; a husband and wife with a two-year-old boy who’s name constantly eludes him.

A couple of gym-junkie brothers live to the right. They’re both builders whose vocabulary consists mostly of “yeah bro,” and “totally buggin,” but they’re nice enough guys.

They also throw a mean block party, as evidenced by last weekend’s shenanigans. Pretty much the entire street turned out in force, spilling out onto the footpath. The barbecues worked overtime and alcohol flowed aplenty.

Wheeler lost count after the ninth beer was handed to him. He remembers the first half of the night, but the second half remains a complete mystery.

He woke the next morning in a garden bed three doors down, popped against a mailbox. The owners of the property were nice enough to leave him a blanket.

He finds himself really liking it here.

Wheeler is treading water in an ocean of rent, bills, grocery shopping and remembering which night the trash bins go out.

Delightfully mundane stuff.

He’s filling his place slowly. A fresh coat of paint and new carpet and floors were the first point of call upon moving in. The couch was the next item on the agenda — serves a multitude of purposes, after all. The rest of the furniture slowly trickled in over the following weeks. It’s not finished by any means, but the place is starting to feel warm and homely.

He often runs any intended purchases past a certain kleptomaniac with a passion for fashion and interior design. He sends sneaky photos, accompanied by long lines of text including such diverse phrases as “Have you seen my new lamp? Half price!” and “OMG have you seen my rug? On. Sale. So cheap.”

Gi’s responses are both highly inappropriate and hilarious.

Wheeler has settled into his new workplace without issue. His new work mates are preppy, trust-fund types with gas-guzzling cars and large egos. Wheeler supposes they’re all right, friendly and extraordinarily welcoming, but they’ve certainly not the salt-of-the earth, hardworking individuals that he’s used to.

There’s a lot of extended lunches and two-hour gym sessions. There’s a lot of socializing and beers after work. In fact, there’s a lot of wasted time, but he supposes that’s okay. Maintaining a positive work-life balance isn’t something he’s used to.

Workplace politics run rampant. Wheeler doesn’t bother with any of it. He’s not the type to mince words. He’s charming yet forthright, honest yet quite cutting at times, and this garners more respect from the establishment than the crawling little upstarts who cheat and backstab their way through life.

He’s pretty adept at spotting them, now. The guys who big-note themselves. The loud, obnoxious dickheads who brag about their accomplishments but don’t do any actual fucking work.

He heads home early on a Friday knowing that he has a whole weekend of doing whatever the fuck he likes ahead of him. It’s a novel idea, and one that he certainly doesn’t take for granted.

Wheeler’s father has become the housemate who won’t leave. Nick drops by several times a week, even though ‘dropping by’ requires two subway interchanges and a five-minute walk.  He ambles through Wheeler’s door, asking some random, inane question while he eyes Wheeler’s apartment beadily.

Wheeler’s fridge is always well stocked with food, and a big-screen television was one of the first things he indulged in after the first pay-check rolled in.

His dad takes full advantage.

It’s an uneasy alliance where both parties tend to circumnavigate (and ignore) one another, but this new, tentative arrangement seems to be working. For the most part, Nick conducts himself in a respectful manner.

For the most part.

The diagnosis is in. Alcohol induced schizophrenia, along with early stage liver failure. The schizophrenia is manageable with the right medication. Nick takes the pills begrudgingly, and the rum and beer have reduced significantly.

The liver issue is a whole other ball game. It’ll end him eventually, but for now, he’s comfortable and he’s stable, and he’s actually behaving himself.

For that small mercy, Wheeler is thankful.

Shadow is settled and content. There was no way he could leave her on Hope Island. He has a small backyard, but she’s an indoor dog and is terrific company. They spend their weekends at local parks and cafes socialising. Wheeler has hired a dog walker three times per week, and his dad even takes her for walks occasionally, usually served with an outward reticence but an inward sense of affection and contentment.

His dad seems to prefer the company of canines to humans, so it’s a match made in heaven. A type of behavioural therapy — only there’s two animals participating, both prone to scratching their bare bellies and barking for food when the occasion calls for it.

He misses the others dearly, but he fucking mourns Linka’s absence with a vengeance. It’s in the quiet moments, when he’s out with new friends listening to their inane chatter and gossip.

It’s when he’s stretched out on the couch on a Friday night watching a movie with no one to snuggle with; the only scent lingering belonging to the faux leather fabric beneath his body. When he starts craving buttercream frosting with an intensity that frightens him.

It’s when the bird-brained receptionist from the front office chats him up, her Bronx accent harsh and braying, certainly not soft and lilting like the woman he left behind. Then again, he can’t expect much from a woman who thinks the term ‘Paraguay’ refers to those little umbrellas served in tropical cocktails.

He thinks about Linka a lot. She’s always on his mind. Regardless of distance, they remain in close correspondence. She was the first to make contact, the first to broach the divide, and they send several emails a day now, trading anecdotes and observations, talking about their day. Each new delivery to his inbox causes a wide grin to break out on his face.

The Planeteers are in Antarctica right now, dealing with a weird strain of bacteria effecting the wildlife. They’ll be freezing and miserable, but he misses the opportunity to be freezing and miserable with _her_.

After a month in this new job, after a month being without her, the penny drops.  

It finally occurs to Wheeler that he’s in love with her.

It’s not like in the movies. There’s no Hollywood happy ending here. There will never be any grand declarations of undying affection between them. No clandestine, passionate embraces in front of major tourism landmarks, lit up for maximum cinematic impact.

That’s not what they have.

It’s living with her face in his memory, and the butterflies in his stomach when he hears her voice. It’s a reverent and everlasting affection, of wanting her near when she’s so far away. It’s an intense connection and a fierce fucking attraction that still evokes a physiological response despite the distance between them.

He doesn’t broach that particular subject via email. Neither does she, however they’ve always had the tendency to say a lot without saying anything at all.

The knowledge doesn’t make things any easier.

He has to let her go.


	10. Chapter 10

The festivities are in full swing.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Wheeler and his new workmates have decided to let loose in Times Square. There’s around fifteen of them in total, all rugged up for the weather in coats and heavy scarves, their alcohol subtly concealed in generic water bottles and flasks buried deep with their pockets.

He’s done it himself many times before. The worst authorities will do is confiscate any contraband items — there’s so many people here, it’s unlikely they’ll be caught.

They follow the crowd, stopping and starting, talking amiably amongst themselves. The lights are bright, and the atmosphere is electric.

There’s a couple of girls in push-up bras from HR vying for his attention. They look barely out of their teens, their lips painted red and glossy. He’s both flattered and grossed out at the same time, feeling like he should be the adult and tell them to put more clothes on.

It’s cold out, ya know.

They’re still yammering away, so Wheeler tries passing them off to one of his single colleagues, but the guy has already disappeared into the night with a pretty little brunette from the accounting department. He gives the guy a mental high five, while cursing his own misfortune.

It’s fucking freezing. They shove their way through wall-to-wall revellers, some clad in their oversized novelty glasses and hats, blowing their noise-makers merrily. Some adjacent streets are closed off and the foot traffic is bottle-necking badly.

The group decide to head down a side street, looking for a quieter and less claustrophobic option. Wheeler follows the remainder of his colleagues as they march themselves into a trendy looking sports bar. It’s no less packed to the brim, but at least it’s out of the elements. They head to the counter and squeeze themselves in, ordering drinks and bemoaning this year’s less than impressive entertainment schedule.

Wheeler nurses his bourbon, conversing with a couple of the guys for the next hour or so. More revellers enter the establishment, each group allowing a brief gust of cold air in every time they push through the door. It’s rowdy and stiflingly hot in here, at odds with the arctic blast blowing outside.

He’ll stay until just after midnight and head home, knowing his father will probably be slumped in the same place he left him — on Wheeler’s new recliner with an empty bag of Cheetos balancing precariously on his stomach.

The seat beside him vacates and one of the scantily-dressed chicks from earlier plonks herself down uninvited, attempting to engage him in conversation. She sounds like Minnie Mouse on helium: a high-pitched, almost babyish voice, and for the most part he ignores her, sipping his drink and pointedly making an effort to ask the butch-looking bartender about her tattoo sleeves.

She’s only too happy to oblige. In between serving customers, the next half hour is devoted to freedom of expression, and health and safety regulations imposed for emerging tattoo artists.

Minnie Mouse eventually ducks down to reapply her lip gloss, and he’s distracted for a moment, the tattoo conversation trailing off to a point, before becoming dead in the water. Wheeler’s gaze falls upon a woman seated three barstools to the right of him, perched prettily over the bar.

He’s granted a brief glimpse of the woman’s profile — thick, wavy blonde hair, an upturned nose and soft pink lips, and his heart skips a beat. More customers surge around the bar, and his view diminishes. The blonde disappears from sight.

But Wheeler's heart is thumping hard and his mouth is dry. Déjà vu descends, clear and sudden. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He’s on his feet like a rocket, shoving his way through the crowd and squeezing himself next to the woman in question, ignoring the grumbles directed at him from the big guy whose personal space he’s just invaded.

Upon closer inspection, the woman is dressed in a dark charcoal coat. There’s a hint of lavender-clad cleavage peeking out from beneath the front closure. Her hair lies loose and bundled over one shoulder, and her face is angled away from him.

Lo-and-behold, the back of her fucking head is on display — an inside joke if he ever saw one.

But it’s the buttercream frosting that gives her away.

Like a rutting stag on heat, his nostrils flare. He’d know that scent anywhere. He stands for a moment, staring down in shock at the blonde, and she finally glances up at him from beneath her long lashes, her newly manicured French-nails tapping nervously on the countertop.

Wheeler’s suspicions are confirmed.

He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, utterly delighted to see her again. As luck would have it, the big guy stands and stalks away, throwing him a dirty glare at the unwanted intrusion, but Wheeler has a care factor of zero. He drops down into the vacant seat, unable to take his eyes off her.

“Hi there,” he shouts over the noise of the bar.

“Hello.” Linka stares shyly at her nails, her face flushed and rosy.

He nudges her playfully with his shoulder. “Buy you a drink?”

Linka shrugs, trying — and failing — to hide her smile. “Sure.”

He offers her his hand. “Matt Spanky.”

Linka raises her eyebrows. She takes his hand and shakes it vigorously, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “Ursula Schluck.”

“Uh huh,” he says, beckoning for the bartender. He orders Linka a piña colada, well aware of her preference for cream-laden fruity concoctions.  “Okay. Where are you from, Ursula?”

“Austria.” Linka reaches for his bourbon and takes a sip, grimacing somewhat at the taste. “I am travelling.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” she says, nudging his drink back towards him. “I am here for work.”

“Uh huh,” he says. “What do ya do for a livin’?”

“Professional yodeller. I travel the world competing.”

“And you’re yodellin’ in New York right now?”

“Yes.” She smiles up at him, tapping her foot to the hideous techno music blaring.  “You should try it. Some find it very therapeutic.”

“Really?” he says bluntly. “I highly doubt that.”

“You are not a fan?”

“Think I’d rather listen to a Chipmunks Christmas album on repeat, in all honesty.”

“No taste,” she sighs. “I could give you a vocal demonstration?”

“Hell no.” He swigs the last of his bourbon, motioning for another. “Do you ever win?”

“What?”

“Your yodellin’ competitions?”

“No,” she laments. “I need more practice.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“The audience tends to run screaming when I take the stage.”

“That’s a pretty good indication."

"True."

“Need a new hobby.”

“Also true.” She smiles her thanks as Wheeler passes her a milky yellow cocktail from the tattooed chick behind the bar. She glances up at him keenly, stirring her creamy concoction with the paper straw.

“What about you?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink. “What do you do for a living?”

“Chicken farmer from Iowa.”

Linka sips more of her drink, her eyes bright and dancing. “Free range?”

“Yep. Two hundred and fifty of the little fuckers runnin’ around my house.”

“Really? I always assumed free range meant outside in a paddock… or a yard?”

“New regulations,” he says loftily, waving his hand around. “Animal equality. I’m an outspoken proponent of chicken rights.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m very passionate.”

“Do you have any future strike action planned?” Linka asks, not bothering to hide the sarcasm dripping from her voice as she mirrors the ghost of an old conversation. “Will you wave your placard at the fowl picket line?”

“I’ll be front and centre, Andrea.”

“Ursula.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

Linka grins, propping her chin in her hand. “Do they have full use of your facilities?”

"Yep. Kitchen, bathroom, lounge room. Little bastards have monthly meetings in the basement, but I’m never allowed in.”

“Plotting your demise?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Death by chicken?” She chuckles, watching him fondly. “Sounds like an uncomfortable situation.”

“I’ll say,” he sighs. “Drinkin’ my beer. Eatin’ my food. Taken over the goddamn bedroom —”

“Do you tuck them in at night? Sing to them? Read stories to them and —”

“I’m not gonna answer that on the grounds I may incriminate myself.”

Linka raises an arched eyebrow. “You are not sleeping with them, are you?”

“How do you _know_ ,” he whispers in mock indignation, and Linka snorts milky liquid from her nose, her hand clamped over her mouth and her face turning bright red.

“Oh my God, Wheeler,” she splutters through her fingers.

“Too far?”

“You have pushed the boundaries of good taste, as per usual.”

“Conversation’s gone rogue,” he mutters, thumping her on the back as she takes a moment to recover. “Jesus.”

Linka is still giggling, and it’s like music to his ears. She rises to her feet suddenly. Shrugging out of her coat, she places it on the back of her barstool and settles herself down once again.

Wheeler eyes her lithe body greedily. Gi was right. The dress looks fucking fabulous on her.

He finds himself staring at her cleavage, soft and sensual within their chiffon frame. It’s a rare sight to behold, and he takes full advantage.

“I like your dress,” he volunteers.

“Thank you,” she says graciously.

He flashes her a cheeky grin. “Your boobs look like a million bucks,”

Linka laughs, blushing. “So I have been told,” she says, glancing down and passing a self-conscious hand over her chest. “It was a Christmas present.”

“From who?”

“A good friend,” she says, smiling. “I love it. He wrapped it a little too well, though. I broke a nail trying to open it.”

“Really?”

She nods, flexing her knuckles and inspecting her new acrylic nails. “I thought I would invest in a new set.”

“I like ‘em,” he says, recalling her usual choice of shortly clipped nails for practicality purposes. “Glad you’re spoilin’ yourself.”

“I am trying something new,” she says softly. “Perhaps a new year’s resolution…”

“Which is?”

She sighs, propping her face in her hand, her hair falling over her face in loose waves. “Investing in things I need.”

“Rather than denying yourself things you want?” he says knowingly, and she nods, flushing hard.

“Something like that.”

Wheeler sits back, clutching the rim of his near-empty bourbon glass and spinning it slowly. He watches her carefully. “Where are your fellow yodellers?”

“Working,” she answers. “I requested the night off.”

“Just the night?” he asks curiously, reaching for her hand and folding it carefully within his own. “Yodellin’ not living up to its full potential?”

“Not anymore,” Linka says softly, her eyes following the motion of his thumb as he circles her palm and the inside of her wrist lazily. She glances around nervously, perched prim and proper in her seat. “It’s not —”

“How the hell did you get here?”

“They dropped me off,” she utters. “Ma-Ti was able to track you down —”

“Jesus, it’s good to see your face —"

“I did not even know if you would still be here, I thought that maybe you might have already gone —”

“Are you here by yourself?”

“Do you live close by?” she blurts out.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, watching the way she watches him.  “Where are you stayin?”

“I don’t know,” Linka volunteers, shy and awkward now as she squirms somewhat in her seat. “This was not exactly —”

“— a well thought out plan?”

Her cheeks flush pink, and she expels a long, shaky breath. “Not really. No.”

“I’m so fucking glad you’re here,” he says softly. “You have no idea.”

Linka smiles at him; her eyes are bright and brimming with affection. “Me too.”

They’re quiet for a moment, taking everything in, indulging in those nervous, sneaky glances when they assume the other isn’t looking.

Wheeler’s mind is going a million miles an hour. There’s some downright inappropriate thoughts running through his head, and he does his best to push them aside.

“Your family okay?” he finally asks.

She nods, a reflective look passing over her face. “They are well. Our soldiers have finally pushed the fighters back across the border. We have a military detail posted. They were cleaning up the damage when I left.”

“You’re not needed there?”

“I think it is time for them to stand on their own,” she whispers, and he wonders if her village isn’t the only situation affected by that particular statement.

“How is your father?” she asks, changing the subject with lightning speed, and he rolls his eyes.

“Still a grumpy old bastard.”

“He is doing better, though?”

“He’s been on the wagon for six weeks,” Wheeler says. “Kinda waitin’ for the wheels to fall off, in all honesty. Too used to doin’ what he wants.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. “What about Shadow?”

“Missin’ you.” He smiles at her fondly, squeezing her hand. “Still no replacement for my ring?”

“No.” Linka shakes her head. “Six weeks now without your element. Kwame was tempted to set fire to something last week.”

“With matches, I presume?” Wheeler rolls his eyes. “You guys are probably causin’ a lot less damage without me, anyway.”

“Kwame has been very quiet,” she says. “He misses you.” She plays again with her straw. “Ma-Ti believes we will not see your replacement.”

“There’s gotta be someone Gaia has in mind —”

“He has a theory.”

"Which is?"

“Ma-Ti thinks there are five people out there who have already been chosen, but the rings are waiting...”

“Waitin’ for what?”

“For the rest of us to walk away,” she says softly.

Wheeler’s mouth snaps shut at the unspoken inference. It makes sense. A new cycle will begin, with a new team of Planeteers.

“Okay,” he says, stunned. “Package deal, I suppose. All or nothin’?”

”I guess.”

”How do you feel about that?”

She sighs. “We have all agreed that it is time for a change.”

He raises his eyebrows, considering the intriguing statement and trying not to read too much into it.

Linka tucks her hair behind her ear. She glances around, seeming to note the curious glances levelled in their direction from his colleagues spread throughout the bar. In all honesty, Wheeler had completely forgotten about them. There’s a lot of neck-craning going on as they unabashedly check her out, and it doesn’t pass Linka’s attention.

“You are here with the people you work with?”

“Oh,” he says quickly. “Uh, yeah.”

“Are they treating you well?”

“They’re nice enough,” he shrugs. He strokes her nails distractedly, aware of the way his immediate boss is ogling Linka from across the bar. “They’re a half-decent bunch, I suppose.”

“Have you seen any of your childhood friends.”

He snorts. “God, no."

"Why not?"

"Had an offer to hang out tonight, but I turned ‘em down.”

”Why?”

He gives her a wry smile. “Pilfering scrap metal from abandoned car yards is a little beneath me these days.”

“Oh.”

The implications of their earlier conversation are still running through his mind. All or nothing. The current cycle is coming to an end. For all the sacrifices they’ve made, the rest of the team have the chance at a normal life, now.

Wheeler’s own life is good, but it could be great. He’s treading water but wants to be swimming. He’s clear of the mud but craves solid ground, and he’s hoping Linka has come to the same realisation. He’s hoping that’s why she’s here.

He’s hoping he gets to take her home tonight.

They sit together companionably for a while, side-by-side and content to be in each other’s company. Her hand is still clutched warmly within his, and he distracts himself for a while, still stroking her slender fingers with his thumb. Her head drops down onto his shoulder, watching his careful ministrations through glazed, half-lidded eyes.

“Come back to my place,” he says eventually, threading his fingers through hers.

“Your place?” She tips her head back, blinking up at him from beneath her darkened lashes. “What are you offering?”

He raises her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “Whatever you want.”

“Coffee? Conversation?”

“Conversation doesn’t tend to be our strong point, babe.”

She smiles gently at him. “All right. What else?”

“Got a pretty extensive Marvel action figure collection,” he says, falling back into bad habits and cursing himself all the while. “You’ll be duly impressed.”

“How extensive?” Crossing her shapely legs, Linka plucks the pineapple garnish from the glass and pops it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “It needs to be worth my while.”

“I’ve got Captain America, Iron Man, Spiderman, Wolverine, Daredevil, Venom —"

“Which one is your favourite?”

“Captain America.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s built like a brick shithouse and popular with the ladies.”

Linka laughs. “Is he the one with the shield?”

“Red, white and blue vibranium. All American patriotism, moulded from carcinogenic plastics in the back of a Chinese sweatshop.”

Linka looks impressed. “How big is it?”

“The shield?”

“No,” she voices, tutting softly. “Your Captain America.”

“Six inches, give or take,” he says teasingly, downing the last of his bourbon and feeling the pleasant burn tingling its way down his throat. “Geez, babe. You should know.”

Linka chokes somewhat on her drink. “Are we still talking about action figures?”

“Hell no.”

“All right,” she says huskily, running a hand through her hair. “What about Black Widow?”

“Nah, don’t have her. They never released Natasha.”

“Well, that is sexist,” she says resolutely. “How dare they?”

“I’ll write ‘em a harshly-worded letter.”

She laughs suddenly, clear and bright, and Wheeler grabs the legs of the barstool and drags her closer without warning, trapping her knees between his thighs. He leans forward and she does the same, their foreheads pressed gently together, their hands clutched tightly together within his lap.

He’s delighted to see her. He knows how difficult this is for her. It would have taken a lot of courage for her to come here, and it means the world to him.

“Hey, cutie,” he says warmly, and the resulting smile she gives him lights up his world.

“Hi,” she breathes, tilting her head to the side as his fingers stroke loosely through her hair. “I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

“Life is so different now,” she sighs, her lips tantalisingly close. “It is not the same without—"

Wheeler can’t fucking help himself. Leaning forward, he cups her face and presses his mouth to hers.

She’s warm and pliant against him, and tastes of the pineapple and cream still lingering on her lips and tongue. Her hands come to rest gently on his chest, smoothing over his shirt, and he notes the way her lashes flutter open as she gazes at him longingly.

“I like you,” she breathes, nuzzling his nose and cheek. “I really like you.”

“I like you too, babe,” he replies. The comment is cathartic and, quite literally, the biggest fucking understatement of the century, but at least it’s a good start.

“We never talked.”

“Nope.”

“We never said anything,” she voices hesitantly. “We never —"

“Nope,” he says again. “Not a damn thing.”

“So stubborn…”

“Tell me about it.”

“I liked what we did together.” Her voice is a mere whisper, her warm breath tickling his cheek. “I liked how you made me feel when we were alone together. I liked it when your hands were on me…"

Wheeler closes his eyes. He has nothing to add, nothing to say. So used to taking the lead, he remains quiet, choosing to bask somewhat in the warm glow of her words. After all, he still wants her to want him. He wants her to say it. He wants her to admit it, and this conversation seems to be going in a hell of a good direction.

She’s distinctly nervous, talking quickly, in a rush to get it all out.

“And not just the physical side of things,” she utters, drawing back and wringing her hands. “I like spending time with you. I like watching movies with you and lying with you. I like cuddling with you. I like being with you and….”

She trails off, pursing her lips and staring at the clock behind the bar. There’s loud cheering, and the crowd is surging around them. A glass shatters nearby, but neither of them are paying enough attention to really notice. 

“I love how you took control,” she whispers, still avoiding his gaze, and he can feel the heat rising from her cheeks. “I cannot stop thinking about that night, about what we did to each other.”

Wheeler smooths his palm over her thigh, and she leans in closer, pressing her face into his throat, her warm breath tickling his skin.

“I wanted more — and then you were gone and …” She trails off, dashing a tear away and taking a hitching breath. “I felt like I left it all too late and —"

Wheeler closes his eyes, massaging the back of her neck gently. “I didn’t wanna leave you, babe. You were the only thing keepin’ me there for so long.”

“I did not wish to make things difficult for you,” she whispers, raising her tear-stained face, and he wipes the moisture away gently with his thumb. “You had so much going on, so much you were dealing with and I was worried that —”

“Come back to my place,” he asks again, his lips grazing the delicate ridge of her ear, finding himself lost in a haze of sugared frosting. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

She sighs, tipping her forehead onto his shoulder “How?”

“No rules. No arrangements.” He smiles, tilting her chin and kissing her softly. “Just an evening of sordid, meaningful and occasionally depraved sex.”

She wets her lips in anticipation. “What about your action figure collection?”

“They can watch, too.”

Linka laughs softly, eyeing the clock behind the bar again.

Unbeknownst to Wheeler, it’s past midnight. The New Year’s countdown has already come and gone, and half the bar has already filed out. His colleagues are nowhere to be seen, yet the knowledge doesn’t exactly disappoint him.

“Can this work?” she voices quietly, and he knows she isn’t talking about tonight. “Since we are being honest and force-coming —”

“Forthcoming,” he says, smiling. It’s just like Linka to be thinking about the logistics of the situation before they’ve even gotten down to business.

“A long-distance relationship,” she continues. “It could be weeks at a time before we see one another —”

“I don’t care,” he says, reassuring her. “You’re worth the wait.”

Linka nods, nudging his forehead. “What if we cannot make it work?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose.” He shrugs, because the details are inconsequential. “I’ll take you any way I can get you, pretty lady.”

Linka’s face softens. She sits back against the bar and props her chin in her hand, observing him quietly.

It occurs to Wheeler that she hasn’t given him a definitive answer to his earlier requests. It’s the only thought on his mind right now, intent on getting her home and fucking her six ways from Sunday if she agrees. It’s become his New Year’s resolution, and by God, he’s planning on delivering.

“Come home with me,” he implores, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles again. “And if your response involves me havin’ to ask you again next year, you’re gonna break my goddamn heart.”

She smiles, smoothing his hair back fondly. “I think we are well past that point, aren’t we, Yankee?”

“I think we pretty much obliterated that point in my hotel room last month, Lin.”

Linka eyes the door.  “How far to your —”

“Half an hour,” he says. Grabbing their coats and belongings, he pulls Linka to her feet, impatient to get moving. “Probably closer to twenty minutes at the rate I’ll be draggin’ ya.”

“We can talk on the way?” she asks earnestly. “I think we need to discuss —"

“l’ll be honest, babe,” he says. “Only thinkin’ about one thing right now. Not capable of discussin’ much else.”

She smiles knowingly. “You are thinking of the two hundred and fifty hens having a party in the basement?”

“Nope,” he says, helping her shrug into the thick, woollen coat, ready for the long commute ahead of them. “I’m thinkin’ about what I’m plannin’ on doin’ to you in graphic detail before I nail ya tonight.”

Linka stares at him with unabashed interest. “What are you planning?” she asks, wetting her lips nervously. “In the spirit of being open and honest…”

He shrugs dismissively. “I have a few ideas in mind.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

“Uh,” she says nervously, unable to hide her interest. “Like what?”

“Meh.” Shrugging dismissively, he grabs her hand and pushes through the front door, dragging her out into the cold night. “Ask me again next year, honey.”

“Wheeler!” she sputters, but she’s flushed and breathless, eyeing him with a somewhat predatory look. “ _Idiota_ —”

“Control freak,” he retorts, slinging an arm around her waist and pulling her close. They fall into step together, moving through the dispersing crowd.

“What are you planning?”

“Well, that’s on a need to know basis, honey,” he says. “And you sure as hell don’t need to know.”

"What if I ask you nicely?” she says, her voice low and suggestive. Linka reaches up on tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She peers up at him, smiling brightly. “Or do you wish me to beg?”

“Oh, you’ll be beggin’ by the time I’m finished with you,” Wheeler mutters. He pulls her back toward him again, pressing a hard kiss to her temple. “I’m a man of my word.”

She murmurs something breathlessly as he steers her through the crowd toward the subway, his hand already beneath her coat and resting against the silken curve of her bottom.

Because at the end of the day, when the dust has settled and she’s finally lying naked in his arms, the outcome will be the same. Licking her senseless and fucking devouring her remains at the top of Wheeler’s list of priorities.

“Thirty minutes?”

“Got it all planned out.” He taps his head, eyeing the packed train approaching the station as they make their way down to the platform. “Don’t fuck with my timetable, girl.”

She laughs out loud at that, wrapping an arm around his waist and cuddling into him as they step onto the train.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for explicit themes

The subway ride is the longest fucking trip of his life.

They haven’t said a word since boarding, the joviality from earlier all but faded. Perhaps the enormity of the situation has taken hold. Perhaps they’re in the midst of reconsidering the new arrangement.

Having uncomplicated the complication, why not drive another goddamn complication into the mix, just for old times’ sake? A reset of their stalemate, rendering them back at the fucking start again…

But Wheeler knows that won’t happen.

He stands behind Linka, his arms circling her waist amongst a sea of New Year revellers. She’s pressed front-on against a pole, clutching the metal tightly, her hair trailing thick and loose between them.

It’s standing room only — their subway car packed to the brim and bordering on uncomfortable. There’s some drunken pushing and shoving going on at the other end; three or four guys getting aggressive with one another. Their belligerent voices are getting more and more irate, and Wheeler steps closer to Linka, dropping his chin onto her shoulder and keeping a wary eye trained on the troublemakers.

It’s instinctual; a force of habit and deeply ingrained. That fierce sense of protectiveness has always been there, even at times when she didn’t require it… or want it, for that matter.

Linka’s body sways with the motion of the carriage, her forehead nudging the cool metal. He closes the gap, pressing into her, effectively sandwiching her between himself and the pole.

With a subtle backward thrust of her hips, she rubs up against him, falling right back into those gloriously bad habits. Turning her head, Linka blinks innocently at him, and he can’t help but smile.

Some things never change... not to mention the fucking buttercream still driving him to distraction.

He lowers his head, breathing her in and immersing himself in the heady scent of her skin, reminding himself just how much he’s missed this. Throwing caution to the wind, Wheeler brushes her hair aside carefully. He nuzzles into her, his lips grazing the delicate line of her neck.

Linka’s head tips sideways, her eyelashes fluttering closed, and his mouth presses firmer, working his way up in a manner that appears to leave her somewhat weak at the knees. He kisses her just once, lightly behind the earlobe, and she utters a soft sigh in return.

The baritone voice of the driver announces the next stop. The squeaking brake system sounds soon after, in need of a decent oiling. A mass of passenger’s shuffle around them, shoulder to shoulder, oblivious to the wonton behaviour unfolding before them.

Linka turns to face him. She hooks her arms around his neck, extending up on her tiptoes and pressing her body firmly against him. Her lips brush his with a deliberate seductiveness, and he reaches out, cupping her face gently within his palm, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

She kisses him, her mouth warm and soft against his. The sensation is primal and exhilarating and intense. It’s joyful; no longer guided by loss or prompted by despair. It’s not driven by arrangements or complications or even grief.

It’s a promise of what’s to come.

His hands settle on her waist, pulling her closer, and she hugs him tightly, peering up at him with a contented smile on her face. Her eyes are warm and hopeful and excited, and he knows without a doubt that dry-humping is not on the agenda tonight.

* * *

They barely make it inside, their lips locked together, a twisting mass of hands groping and pawing one another. They clear the entrance, her heels practically skidding along the floor as he hauls her in.

Wheeler pushes himself between Linka’s thighs, shoving her up against the front door, the heavy oak timber rattling against the hinges. She wraps her legs around his waist and clutches his shoulders, her breath cleaving hot and wet on his neck, sucking hard on his pulse in a manner that drives him wild.

They stumble sideways and he body-slams her into the hall table, sending keys and sunglasses skittering to the floor amongst peals of shocked laughter. One of her shoes dislodges, and it clatters to the floor noisily, along with the charcoal coat he strips from her body with an impatient grumble.

Linka’s mouth smashes down on his painfully, her teeth biting at his bottom lip as she tugs his own jacket down over his shoulders and arms. He tramples over it carelessly, swinging her around and lumbering their combined weight towards the bedroom, already at the point of mentally undressing the rest of her body before his hands can complete the job.

But nothing ever goes easy for the two of them.

Nothing is ever as straight forward as it should be. As one complication finally resolves itself, another two become apparent, the first of which comes barrelling towards them from the laundry within moments of making their noisy entrance.

Shadow’s tail is going a million miles an hour. She leaps excitedly at the pair, scratching and clawing them painfully with her nails, no doubt recognising the woman scissored tightly around her master’s hips.

Wheeler wrenches Linka away with an exasperated growl, dodging Shadow’s attempts to forcibly dislodge Linka’s remaining shoe. It takes some multi-tasking on Wheeler’s part to placate her.

“Sit!” he hisses. “No! Get down, ya crazy-ass —"

Shadow drops down next to the couch for a moment, and Linka dissolves into a fit of helpless giggles as the dog’s obedience wears thin. Shadow begins a frenetic belly shuffle toward them, her tail still wagging nineteen to the dozen.

“No. Stay! Goddammit —”

The dog dashes off, skidding behind the couch and bounding back with a half-chewed tennis ball. She skids to a stop and drops it to the floor, proceeding to lick the underside of Linka’s bare foot excitedly.

“Hello, puppy,” Linka coos. “It is good to see you too —"

Shadow interrupts, letting loose with an excitable stream of weird canine vocalisations, and it’s at this point that Wheeler spots the bare feet outstretched over the end of the recliner. His father is a few mere feet away, dozing fitfully; the empty Cheetos bag having toppled off his stomach and now lying discarded under the coffee table.

_Shit._

Wheeler darts away from him, shocked as all hell that their noisy entrance hasn’t awoken him. He shifts Linka’s weight and stalks toward the laundry, still trying to shake off the damn dog who remains intent on forcibly dragging Linka from his arms.

His dad lets loose a thunderous snore from somewhere behind them, and Wheeler groans, half expecting The Three Stooges to burst forth from the upstairs bedroom, clamouring down the stairs with a brass band playing loudly. The evening is turning into a fucking comedy of errors, after all.

His dad mumbles something unintelligible and flops onto his side, and Shadow starts leaping around again, desperate for Linka’s attention.

“For fucks sake,” Wheeler mutters under his breath, and Linka is in hysterics, biting down on his shoulder to keep from laughing harder. She slings an arm around Wheeler’s neck and arches back, her hand outstretched toward the eager dog.

“Hello, _moy shchenok_.” Linka says warmly, and Shadow paces forward, accepting a vigorous scratch behind the ears. “Oh, I have missed you.”

“Bed,” Wheeler orders, his patience wearing thin. He points toward the laundry and the blankets lying dark and quiet inside. “Now.”

“Are you referring to me or the dog?” Linka teases, her breath warm in his ear as Shadow finally gives in, padding back to her bed dejectedly. “Because your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired —”

“To hell with hospitality, sweetheart.”

“Poor, lonely puppy,” she says, her voice low and amused, and he can feel Linka’s lips curled into a smile against his cheek. She nips Wheeler’s earlobe affectionately. “She wants to play.”

“Shush, you.” Wheeler smacks her firmly on the ass in response. “You’re playin’ with me, first.”

He heaves Linka upstairs and into his darkened room. Kicking the door shut behind them, Wheeler dumps her roughly onto the bed.

She yelps as she hits the mattress, and he’s revelling in the fact that she’s here, and he’s got her, and the back of her fucking head is where it should be — lying prone against the pillows, her hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders.

But it’s her beloved face that Wheeler soaks up greedily. He falls upon her, his kisses hard and searing as they pull the clothes from one-another’s bodies. He’s rough and impatient, flinging filmy lavender fabric aside until she’s naked and squirming beneath him, his hands and mouth already working her flesh impatiently.

Linka falls back against the pillows with a long sigh, her hand fisting into the hair at the nape of his neck. His tongue trails wetly down the centre of her chest, his hands busy exploring silken skin. Her body is a fucking temple, perfectly proportioned and designed to be worshipped.

Like a moth to the flame, he hovers over her chest. She arches in anticipation, her nipples pebbling beneath his warm breath, and he decides to deviate somewhat from his plans.

Because he wants to. Because he can.

Because, you know. Fuck the rules. Fuck the arrangements and fuck the complications. It doesn’t matter. Because despite the length of time it’s taken to get to this point, he has no fucking regrets about any of it.

So if he wants to mouth and lick her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue while her body jerks and shivers beneath him, then he will.

If he chooses to grant Linka a fleeting moment of control, allowing her to shove him onto his back and envelop him whole, sucking reverently until the head of his cock hits the back of her tonsils, then he’ll fucking well do that.

If he feels like pushing between her thighs and grinding on her, rolling her around until they misjudge the bed width and tumble off the side of the mattress, shrieking with laughter, then he’ll do that too.

And if the floor is where they choose to remain, her naked body bowed backward over a discarded gym bag and a rubber chew toy, then so be it.

There’s a hushed clarity when he enters her for the first time. It feels like coming home. He rocks into her slowly, his hands buried deep in the softness of her hair as they fall into a steady, desperate rhythm. She holds him close, her breath hot against his cheek and her palms moving over the taut muscles of his back.

The floorboards creak and groan under their weight. Her moans are low and ragged in his ear; whispered, loving words passing in the air between them. It occurs to Wheeler that for two people who never supposedly talked, the dialogue is flowing thick and fast now… and getting louder with every passing moment.

Really loud.

Wheeler fumbles blindly for the TV stand.  It takes three distracted attempts, but he manages to thump the television on, needing to drown out the almighty amount of noise they’re already making, in case his Dad wakes and assumes there’s a herd of elephants on heat trampling on the floor above him.

A laughter track sounds, some eighties comedy no doubt with stilted acting, annoying characters and cliched plotlines. He really couldn’t give a shit, only interested in the muted glow now bathing Linka’s body in luscious detail.

He slows the pace right down despite her fierce protestations, readjusting her legs around his waist and covering her mouth with his.

The begging comes later, just as he said it would.

Wheeler is a man of his word, after all.

* * *

He brushes Linka’s dishevelled hair away from her eyes as they regard each other in the early hours of the morning. Too tired to move, he lies quietly, content to sleep the day away with the woman beside him.

The television remains on. There’s a streetlight right outside his bedroom window, illuminating the snow softly falling. He’s spent the past month hating the fucking thing, with its persistent glow annoying the shit out of him at all hours of the night.

Right now, he doesn’t mind it at all.

Linka blinks at him sleepily, her face pale, and her mouth still reddened and swollen from his kisses. He tugs the quilt up above her shoulders, and she snuggles into him with a sigh, tucking her forehead beneath his chin, her body blissfully warm and naked against his.

“Stay with me,’ he voices quietly, running his fingers through her hair.

She tilts her head back, scrutinising him carefully, and Wheeler’s heart warms at the contented, sleepy expression on her face.

“Stay with you?”

“I don’t want you to go,” he says quietly. “Move in with me.”

She takes a moment to consider his offer, her teeth pressing upon her lip. “It is not that simple —”

“I know.” He wraps her up firmly in his arms, nuzzling the top of her head with a heavy sigh. “Stay anyway.”

 “I do not have residency here, no way of supporting myself or my family, nor have I —"

“You won’t have a problem gettin’ a visa, babe. We can work out the rest later on —”

“I will not be able to work until I get the necessary paperwork, Yankee… I will have no way of —"

“You know I’ll support you,” he says, grazing her lips with his own. “Babe, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with —"

“I could not ask you to do that —”

“You don’t need to ask,” he says patiently. “You know that.”

“I know, but —"

“For all I care, you can sit around in your jammies all day, eatin’ Oreos and watchin’ shitty b-grade horror movies.”

She bursts out laughing, pressing her forehead against his bare chest, her fingers tangling into his chest hair. “Not likely on the last option, Wheeler.”

“Geez, pay me in sex, then,” he mutters, exasperated, and she swats him lightly. “Trust me, I’ll be getting’ the better end of the deal.”

“ _Pridurok_ ,” Linka chastises, but she’s smiling all the same.

“You’re proud and you’re humble. I get that,” he says. “But I think we’ve tip-toed around one another for long enough, babe. I wanna be with you.”

“I want to be with you too,” she utters. “I just do not wish to take advantage of you.”

Stroking her face, he smiles gently at her, knowing the internal battle that still rages within her mind. Knowing the burden of responsibility and sense of duty that still lingers despite her dream of breaking free of it.

“You’ve served your time, babe,” he says softly. “You said it yourself. You’ve carried ‘em for long enough.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and Wheeler rolls her over onto her back, wiping it away with his thumb. Pressing his body between her thighs, he lowers his head and kisses her slowly. He feels himself stirring against her hip, those sparks of desire flaring within again, recalling the way they moved together only hours before.

Linka sighs. Squeezing him with her thighs, she moves her hips against him suggestively, her fingers raking through his hair.

Tired, light headed and seemingly drained of all bodily fluids, one specific area of Wheeler’s body doesn’t appear to have caught the same memo.

Round two appears to be on the cards, after all.

“I don’t want things to go back to the way things were,” he murmurs against her lips. “But at the end of the day, it’s your decision. I’ll take—”

“You will take me any way you can get me?” she whispers, cupping his face tenderly and mirroring his words from the night before. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, nuzzling her nose. “Always.”

She blinks up at him, her eyes dark and heavy with desire.

Linka flattens her hands on his chest and rolls out from underneath him. Pushing him gently onto his back, the sheets slide off her body, leaving her gloriously uncovered. Hooking a leg over his hips, she straddles him, her gossamer hair cascading down her body and falling to her waist.

Guiding his hands to her breasts, she sinks down on him slowly. He groans, unable to take his eyes of her as she rides him, the rising sun and snow bathing her skin in a pale glow. She rolls her hips, grinding against him and the feeling is exquisite, like sliding into warm butter. He knows he’s at risk of finishing before they even get started.

She falls against his chest with a sigh, and he wraps his arms around her body, holding her tightly. Taking control of their movements, he presses up into her, gradually increasing the pace until he’s pistoning his hips upwards, pounding into her over and over until her body eventually stiffens and she cries herself hoarse into his neck.

When it’s over, when he’s capable of formulating rational thought, he speaks. His words are open and honest, with no innuendo. There’s no ambiguity or doubt when he tells her he loves her. The words pass easily from his lips, lingering for a moment in the silence before being reciprocated with a heartfelt, tearful intensity.

He asks her to stay…

And she accepts.

* * *

It’s still dark. The ensuite light is on, bright and blaring, and Wheeler yawns, stretching his aching limbs and squinting up at the ceiling.

He rolls over, finding the bed sheets rumpled but empty beside him. He pushes himself up, rubbing his face blearily and glancing around, but she’s not there.

The gym bag remains on the ground beside the bed, the contents scattered across the floor. Shadow’s chew toy is there too, and the memory of the fucking thing jammed painfully between his shoulder blades at one point floats through his mind.

“Jesus,” he says roughly, eyeing the bed again and doubting his fucking sanity for a moment, wondering if it was all a dream.

Her dress is gone; no longer half-hanging off the chair where it landed, and a tremor of worry runs through him.

Stepping into a pair of sweatpants, he darts downstairs, his breath frosting the air and his bare feet treading the cold tiles.

The lights are on and the couch is empty. The Cheetos bag is still beneath the coffee table. His father is gone, probably having retired to the spare bedroom at some point early this morning, perhaps woken by a strange yet unexplainable ruckus.

The hall table contents remain where they fell. Wheeler frowns, checking the kitchen, and even the backyard, but there’s no sign of her. Her coat still lies discarded on the floor where he’d flung it.

The laundry door is open and the dog is gone too, her bed lying empty in the corner.

The front door is ajar. He peeks outside, spotting a small figure sitting on the front steps, shrouded beneath a thick blanket. A sheath of tangled blonde hair peaks out, along with a lumpy protuberance and a shaggy tail, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s fucking freezing. Wheeler steps outside, sinking to the ground beside her, shirtless and shivering. Shadow lies curled up on the other side, her head resting in Linka’s lap.

Linka immediately moves closer, offering Wheeler the end of her blanket, and he accepts it gratefully. The three of them sit huddled together for a while, content in reverent silence. There’s no one around at this time of the morning, his neighbors still tucked away in bed and presumably nursing New Year’s Day hangovers.

There’s a cup of tea clutched in her hand and she offers it to him wordlessly. She runs her fingers through Wheeler’s hair while he drinks, smoothing the unruly strands in an effort to flatten them down.

Judging by her amused smile, he assumes the effort is a lost cause.

A cyclist rides past, followed by an old bomb of a car he doubts would even be deemed road worthy. It sputters past them noisily, the exhaust expelling a large amount of blackened, frosted air.

Linka leans into him, lost in thought. She hugs her knees, her bare legs tucked up against her chest as her eyes survey the street scene before her.

Her head eventually drops against his arm tiredly. He drags her into his lap, dislodging the dog in the process and readjusting the blanket around them both. The hem of her lavender dress pokes out from beneath the fabric.

Shadow shuffles closer too, intent on keeping Linka near. Wheeler can’t really blame her. He knows the feeling.

Linka cuddles into his chest with a heavy sigh, her bare feet dangling over his lap. He holds her tightly, his chin propped against her shoulder.

Her eyes eventually start to lull closed, wilfully oblivious to the sun rising around them. She falls asleep in his arms, content and secure until Wheeler’s back starts aching like a mother-fucker and he has no choice but to bring her back inside.

Her bare feet brush against the doorframe as he carries her back to the warmth and relative comfort of his bed. Shadow follows close behind, seeking entry to his room, and this time, Wheeler takes pity on her.

Not a word has been exchanged.

There’s nothing left to say now that hasn’t already been said.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s after dark.

The museum is closed to the public, but an arrangement has been made to keep the doors open after hours. The staff have stayed back, as well as the usual plague of snap-happy media hounds circling the place like vultures.

It’s being called a retrospective exhibition.

Wheeler has no idea what the fuck that means, but it’s nice to be able to wander around something dedicated to them and not be harassed by slack-jawed stares and idle pointing, accompanied by shouts of “Hey man, aren’t you…”

The subsequent batches of Planeteers are here too. Gaia’s up to her third round. The typical shelf-life seems to be about seven to ten years of active service, before the members start whittling down, stumbling blindly towards the promise of starrier skies.

Banners hang from the ceiling, bright and colourful. There are artefacts galore on display behind glass walls, memorabilia from what seems like another age. There’s inter-dimensional weaponry from their battles with Zarm, rendered obsolete due to the damage sustained in heavy fighting.

There are arrest warrants and mugshots, not to mention a few of Blight’s crazy inventions. Massive photographs line the walls from past missions.

Personal mementoes belonging to each of them are housed within cabinets. Wheeler sure as hell doesn’t remember donating anything, but his tendency to leave shit around is probably coming back to bite him in the ass.

“I don’t see Plunder’s toupee anywhere,” a blithe voice says. Gi surges past him, carting her wailing toddler on her hip. “That thing’s a national treasure.”

“Moron probably got buried with it.”

“Reckon it’s biodegradable?”

“Hell no.” Wheeler snorts. “More likely it’s radioactive.”

“Lead-lined coffin?”

“Uh huh.”

The child’s protests reach a fever pitch, to the point that the pre-recorded narrator’s voice can no longer be heard over the exhibition speakers. Wheeler winces, plugging his ear in an effort to drown out the noise.

“He still cryin’?”

“He’s always crying,” Gi sighs.

“What does he want now?”

“Spotted ice cream in the foyer,” she says resolutely, shifting her son’s wriggling, snot-faced weight. “He wanted it. He’s not getting it.”

Wheeler chuckles, marvelling at history repeating itself after all these years. “Tyrant.”

“You know how hard it is going shopping? Last week he chucked a tantrum because I wouldn’t buy him a packet of aeroplanes with wings!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“They were sanitary napkins!”

“Takes after his goddamn shopaholic mother,” Wheeler says, hiding a smirk. “You do realise there’s a merchandise section at the exit we have to pass through?”

Gi pales. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope,” he says, grinning. “Good luck with that.”

“Damn, is there another way out? I can’t…”

Gi is losing her finely tuned patience. She appears flustered to say the least. Kyong starts up again, wailing for ice cream and drawing unwelcome glances from their fellow exhibition attendees.

“No, I said you need to wait until we’re —”

The kid screams louder than before, flailing his arms and legs and trying to wrench himself out of Gi’s iron grip.

Wheeler blanches, making a conscious effort to put some distance between them. “I’ll give him a solid A for effort.”

“Going through a phase,” Gi grumbles, waving him off. “You have no idea how headstrong he is at the moment.”

Wheeler has some idea.

Gi and her family have been staying with them for the past week, and the kid screams at the drop of a hat.

Gi pushes on towards the next section in an effort to catch up to her husband, and the screaming dies down to an acceptable hum, allowing Wheeler to continue wandering the hallways in peace.

The exhibition feels gawdy and gratuitous. None of them are particularly comfortable with the attention. The second round of Planeteers appear just as overwhelmed. They’re pleasant to talk to but much like his own team, they’re generally keeping to themselves. The current team are much more at home with the pomp and fanfare, posing for pictures and generally lapping up the attention.

Maybe it’s a generational thing… or maybe Wheeler’s bullshit meter has reached its peak.

Fifteen-year-old Ella wanders the exhibition just ahead. Her auburn hair hangs loose and long, and she’s hand in hand with the cocky senior kid who seems to be making himself at home in their lounge room of late.

The little punk eats their food, mouths off and spends a good proportion of his time locking lips with Wheeler’s impressionable daughter on the couch. Ella assures him that they’re not in fact dating.

 They’re just good friends.

 _God, dad. You’re so uptight,_ she likes to bemoan. _I’m not a kid anymore._

But Wheeler has a circular saw, a shed and a large backyard.

Plenty of room to hide a body.

Wheeler took great delight in passing on that little nugget of information recently; relayed with a false twinkle in his eye and a deep sense of malice in his heart.  If that jumpy little upstart makes her cry, Wheeler will bury him.

The look on Matt’s face was priceless. The gratuitous displays of affection have greatly diminished, and for that, he’s grateful. The irony doesn’t escape him, though — that Matt’s abrasive personality so closely mirrors his own at the same age. The similarities are a little too close for comfort, especially considering the mischief Wheeler got up to in his youth with willing teenage girls.

Wheeler finds himself pondering the anxiety and sleepless nights he no doubt caused countless fathers in his pursuit of a ‘good time’. It's interesting how parenthood changes your perspective on things.

He has another two to see through the world of dating after Ella. Eleven-year-old Grace will surely be next; with her pale, almost ethereal features. Shy and reserved, she’s a mommy’s girl through and through.

Then there’s Max. At nine, he’s the joker; the risk-taker of the family who marches to the beat of his own drum — quite loudly at times, with no fucking sense of beat or rhythm.

But Wheeler loves them all fiercely.

They’re a crazy bunch — hilarious, headstrong, and sometimes downright weird. They can drive him to the point of distraction at times, but they’re _his._

He’s immensely proud of his family. Nothing in his life has ever given him such a sense of purpose, and for the life of him, he still can’t rationalise the behaviour and questionable choices of his own absent parents. He won’t repeat the cycle of neglect and abandonment. Wheeler is determined to give his own kids the childhood he never had.

As the saying goes, he’s forgiven, but he’ll never forget. His parents are both long gone now; his father passing away just before Ella was born.

The stubborn bastard hung around for several years longer than anticipated. Nick’s kidneys were the next to go. He was on dialysis at the end, waiting on a transplant, but it was a heart attack that ultimately took him while he slept. He was buried beside Wheeler’s mother, and he takes small comfort in the knowledge that they’re probably still bellowing at one another in whatever otherworldly realm they’ve long since passed into.

In a way, Nick’s passing was like a door closing on that chapter of his life, leaving him free to start over.

It’s the simple things that give Wheeler the most pleasure, now.

It’s raucous Christmas dinners around the table every year with ham, pork and all the trimmings, rather than the stale left-overs and the sound of glass beer bottles shattering against the wall.

It’s time spent enjoying one another’s company as a family. Laughter and a bit of good-natured ribbing thrown in for good measure, rather than the disdain and ambivalence of the past.

It’s holidays and road trips — creating memories and experiences. It’s mowing the lawn on a Sunday morning whilst the kids bicker amongst the scented lawn clippings. It’s attending the never-ending cycle of dance concerts and Max’s questionable parent-teacher interviews.

It’s wanting to be present rather than choosing to be absent.

It’s all the things he never had before _her._

The cigarette smoke has long since vanished, replaced by the forty-thousand body lotions his wife uses on regular rotation, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Wheeler rounds the corner and his wife comes into view, hunched over a display with Gi and peering at something with interest. Still reed-thin and gorgeous, Linka’s hair is pulled loosely away from her face and curling over her shoulder. She wears reading glasses now and is looking as immaculate as always. Her face bares the faint lines around the eyes that age tends to bring, yet she’s as lovely as the day he first met her.

Grace is practically attached to her hip, which is hardly no surprise.

A mouthy tour guide ushers Wheeler onward, and he has no choice but to move on. He smacks Linka on the ass as he saunters past, and she shoves him back playfully. Linka grins, muttering something unsavoury to Gi under her breath.

Some games have lingered on over the years.

Ma-Ti is here today too, leaning casually against a wall and deep in conversation with one of his attractive heart-bearer replacements. Much to Wheeler’s surprise, he’s still single after all these years. Ma-Ti continues to play the field, no doubt working his way through both the opposing teams and the starter bench with the usual reckless abandon.

Kyong’s voice echoes from somewhere ahead. Wheeler wanders on, only half paying attention to the excitable babble going on around him.

There’s a relic seemingly from another life around the next corner, and Wheeler is surprised to find himself feeling emotional as it comes fully into view. This exhibit is roped off, prohibiting access to the general public, but Wheeler has never been one to follow the rules. He carries a fierce sense of pride and ownership when it comes to the vehicle in question.

The Geo-Cruiser is beat up as all hell; tarnished with rust and scratched up badly. It’s a mere carcass now, a shell of its former glory. There’s a door missing, and a hole blown right through the right side. One of the solar panels is gone, and he wonders if the fucking thing tore off mid-flight as he always suspected it would.

Wheeler moves closer, running his hand over the roughened metal. He crouches down, peering at the details and dates embossed on the placard. The date range gives a final year of service, and he does a quick calculation in his head. The vehicle most likely fell from the sky two years after his own team passed on their legacy.

Ducking under the ropes, he climbs inside the hull and sinks into the pilot seat, narrowly avoiding the jagged edges threatening to puncture his skin and tear his clothing. He lowers his hands gently onto the control column, and the start-up sequence springs to mind with startling clarity — an echo of his old life seeking prominence.

There’s movement nearby and he knows who it is without looking. Wheeler eyes a certain red-haired, freckle-faced gremlin scrambling into the seat beside him. The kid grabs the controls and jerks his body back and forth, imitating mock machine-gun fire as he shoots down invisible enemies with glee.

“Oy,” Wheeler growls, snapping his fingers at Max. “Get out of the decommissioned flying death trap.”

“You’re in it?”

“I’m up to date with my tetanus shots, ya little pipsqueak.”

“Did this thing really work?” Max looks unconvinced. “Doesn’t look air worthy.”

“Yeah, well…” Wheeler muses, “Canon fire and blasters tend to do that,”

“Lookin’ past it’s use by date.”

“Yeah,” Wheeler sighs, touching the centre console and feeling oddly sentimental. “Yeah, we all are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Max retorts. “You really flew in this thing?”

“Uh huh.”

“Where did you sit?”

“Wherever I liked,” he laughs. “Or wherever your mother told me to.”

“Were you any good in the pilot seat?”

“Why? You lookin’ for a lesson?”

“From you?” Max grins cheekily. “Mom says she was a better pilot anyway —”

Wheeler gives an indignant snort. “Not likely!”

Getting to his feet, he grabs Max’s arm and helps him out, coming close to smacking his head on a low-hanging piece of twisted metal. He ducks to avoid it and it pierces his arm instead, causing blood to ooze onto his new shirt.

“Ah, shit —" he groans, attempting to stem the blood.

“That’s another dollar,” Max announces.

“Still owe you three bucks from yesterday,” Wheeler grumbles as he straightens, inspecting the damage. “That’s a new goddamn shirt.”

“Two dollars.”

“Good thing you’re keepin’ a tab runnin’, buddy.”

“Easy money, Dad.”

Wheeler ruffles his hair. The kid is sending him broke. It’s only April, and Wheeler has already deposited $237 into Max’s swear jar.

The kid’s an entrepreneur in the making.

Max was hauled into the principal’s office last week with eighty-seven dollars stuffed into his pockets. He was caught red handed selling packets of candy to his classmates during meal breaks, raking in an impressive three hundred percent profit.

The principal handed him a detention. Linka was mortified. Wheeler took the kid out for ice cream.

He’s certainly a chip of the old block.

Max dashes off, but Wheeler is aware of another presence approaching with the usual measure of stealth mode.

“I am wondering why they did not restore it?” a deep voice rumbles.

“Nothin’ much left to restore,” Wheeler observes. “Holier than a block of Swiss cheese.”

Kwame nods; his hands resting upon the shoulders of his own son, a quiet and solemn teenager with a name Wheeler still struggles to pronounce. He knows there’s a couple of silent letters thrown into the spelling, along with an innocuous clicking of the tongue somewhere within the first or second syllable.

The name sounds fluent and flawless when it springs from Kwame’s lips. Wheeler attempts are hilariously inept, to the point that he now refers to the kid as ‘dude.’

“Can you believe this shit?” Wheeler asks, jacking his thumb toward one of the current Planeteer recruits busily shaking hands. “The guy’s handin’ out business cards like he’s a fucking CEO or somethin’.”

Kwame scratches his head, glancing back in the direction they came from. “When did we get old?”

 “It’s not the years but the mileage, man.”

Kwame smiles. He places his hand on Wheeler’s back, a long-held and comforting gesture of friendship and implicit trust. They stand together, leaning back against the Geo-Cruiser wreckage and surveying the foot traffic passing them, talking amongst themselves.

They’re all still here, still making a difference. They’re wading through a different set of issues now, of mortgages and school lunches and financial investments…

And Wheeler wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
